


Cleaner Air

by pandoras_chaos



Series: Recovery [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Anger, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Childbirth, Divorce, End of Marriage, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Oral Sex, Post-His Last Vow, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-07
Updated: 2014-12-07
Packaged: 2018-02-28 11:01:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2730008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pandoras_chaos/pseuds/pandoras_chaos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All John wants is to have his life back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cleaner Air

**Author's Note:**

> This is a story about a marriage falling apart. It is not pleasant, nor is it exactly happy, so be forewarned. None of the parties involved are particularly likeable, but I tried to make it as realistic as possible. This is also likely the only time I will ever address the Baby Watson Issue-- something that was really, really hard for me to deal with for personal reasons as well as just plain avoidance for the show's sake. 
> 
> As ever, super huge, epic, _overwhelming_ thanks to my incredible beta team, scarletcurls and thesmallhobbit, for taking this monstrosity and whipping it into some sort of coherence. I couldn't have done it without either of you lovely ladies :D
> 
> Title and lyrics from "Wanderlust" by the remarkable Frank Turner.

**Cleaner Air**  
 

 

: :  
 _Baby let’s get out of the city  
We need to breathe some cleaner air  
That creeping feeling starting like I miss you  
But we’re both of us still here_  
: :

John stares down into his chipped RAMC mug, the initial caffeine buzz fading rapidly as the morning unfolds into yet another monotonous day of restless energy and crippling normality. Mary is at the cooker, her hips swaying absently to the tune blasting from the radio between bouts of irritating talk shows, and John feels inexplicably trapped for the millionth time this week.  
  
Mary drops a plate of eggs in front of him and heaves herself into a kitchen chair, her belly so swollen she can barely fit behind the table. John stares hard at the edge of his mug, imagining smashing the cup against the wall, watching as the shards of splintered ceramic shatter against the plaster, and feels his hand tighten hard around the fork in his hand.  
  
“What’s the matter with you?” Mary asks, her tone no longer holding any of the warmth he’s come to associate with her. She’s a completely different woman now: harder edged and careless. Now that the lie is out, that her cover has been blown, she rarely sugar coats her words with John anymore and a part of him wishes they could just keep on pretending.  
  
John feels his jaw clench and he snatches at the salt, upending the little shaker over his eggs and distributing probably too much onto his breakfast. “Nothing,” he grinds out.  
  
She makes a scoffing sound, but reaches for the hot sauce, dumping enough over the sunny yellow of her yolks to resemble a crime scene. John feels his stomach turn at the thought. “Stop playing the martyr, John. It doesn’t suit you,” she says flippantly, as though casual insults and thinly veiled contempt are the best they can hope for in this parody of a marriage.  
  
Anger rises up, harsh and honest in John’s chest and he slams his fist down beside his plate. She barely even flinches, but gazes at him with a cold, hard stare that makes his teeth hurt.  
  
“How can you—” John begins in a deadly calm voice, but he cuts himself off before he can get into the same circular argument they’ve been having for months. His chair scrapes loudly against the lino as he gets roughly to his feet, but she just swirls the sauce into her yolks and ignores his obvious agitation. He closes his eyes briefly, taking deliberately calming breaths before he looks at her again. Her eyes are cold and hard and she’s staring at him with that calculating spark in his eyes that means she’s about to go on the attack again.  
  
“What?” she asks, feigned innocence only working to irritate him further. John shakes his head and drains the rest of his mug, setting it down with a clipped thunk before balling his hands into fists and resting them on either side of his plate. He takes a deep breath and tries to focus on keeping calm and rational.  
  
“Mary, can we not do this today,” John says, his voice soft and unintentionally vulnerable.  
  
She gives him a long, calculating look before shrugging nonchalantly and taking a bite of toast. “I’m not doing anything, _darling_.” She shoots him an exaggerated grin full of hot sauce and sarcasm and he can feel the anger rising again, hot and bitter up the back of his throat.  
  
“Right,” John says, nodding once and staring down at his own plate. “We’ll just continue on doing _nothing_ for the rest of… what? How long is it going to be this time, hm? A week—a  month? Tell me, won’t you, so I can remember to pencil it into my diary.”  
  
She glares at him for a single heartbeat before shrugging again and going back to her breakfast, refusing to rise to his obvious bait. Some small part of John knows he’s pushing, knows that inviting her to speak is only going to make this worse, but he can’t seem to stop the tremulous wave of helpless spite that seems to break over him every second he continues to stare at the top of her dyed blonde head.  
  
Mary winces a little, and for one glorious moment John thinks he may have actually got through to her this time, but then her hand is over her ribs and she’s rubbing lightly, and John can actually see the small bump of limb as it pushes restlessly outwards against Mary’s stretched abdomen.  
  
Suddenly, all the fight goes out of him in a long rush of breath.  
  
“What do you want from me, Mary?” John mutters softly, aware that he’s opening himself up for scorn and vitriol, but unable to stop it.  
  
Her head snaps up with such force, he’s shocked she’s not in pain again. “What do I want?” she spits, abruptly furious. “I want to not be uncomfortable every second of every day. I want this baby to be more of a joy instead of a horrific reminder of what I thought we’d had once. I _want_ for my husband to stop resenting me for one sodding minute and to _think_ about what sacrifices I’ve made to remain in this marriage. I _want_ a tiny bit of acknowledgement, and maybe a sliver of sympathy, but of course you’re never going to give me that, are you? Why on earth would you feel sorry for _me_ in this relationship? I’m the one who gave up everything I was to be with you; who shielded you from the truth to protect you and the life we have. Oh, but I forgot, you’ll only take that type of abuse from one person, won’t you?”  
  
Something ugly and terrifying seems to spread between them like a poisonous cloud and John stares in utter shock as Mary’s words slice through him like knives. He feels the guilt wash through him, followed by a heavy dose of renewed rage, and the combination has his head spinning with uncertainty and ire.  
  
“Acknowledgement,” he repeats slowly, cold fury causing words to tumble from his lips like rain. “What precisely would you like me to acknowledge, hm? The fact that I know absolutely nothing about you? The fact that you’ve done nothing but lie to me and manipulate me since the day we met? Or perhaps you want to talk about the fact that you shot my best friend in cold blood because he might have clued me in to what exactly I’d got myself into. Which bit of that do you want to discuss exactly?”  
  
The silence between them is deafening, and John feels as though his head is going to explode. He needs to get out, to get some fucking air to _breathe_.  
  
“Are you done?” Mary asks, deadly quiet and still. John grits his teeth and tries to tamp back the rest of his argument; to push it all down so he can escape this encounter relatively unscathed.  
  
“Why don’t you tell me?” he says, just as quietly.  
  
“Why don't _you_ just go back to your boyfriend—”  
  
“Don't,” John snaps, and she goes quiet with an infuriatingly superior look he's come to despise. She's still silent as he takes his overly salty eggs and retreats to the sitting room, hoping in vain for some respite in this hellhole of a flat.  
  
The truth is, John would love to go back to Sherlock; to fall back into the sweetly familiar routine of petty arguments and formaldehyde, of impromptu violin serenades and bullet holes, of adrenaline and danger and so much affection he can barely hold himself together, but John made a promise. He _chose_ Mary, and despite his best efforts, he’s still suffering for it.  
  
John grabs for his mobile, hoping for some kind of distraction, but it is frustratingly empty of messages. Sherlock has been suspiciously silent ever since his second miraculous return three weeks ago, and no amount of patience or hoping is making any difference at all. John had tried texting two nights ago, but to no avail.  
  
There's something… _off_ with Sherlock now. They had tiptoed around each other for two miserable months in the autumn when Sherlock was recovering from the bullet wound John’s _wife_ inflicted on him. John had hoped for some kind of recognition at least of the intimacy they’d shared before the wedding, but Sherlock had been in too much pain for the first few weeks, and then he just seemed to drift away; stuck in his bloody mind palace and ignoring John completely except to demand tea and occasionally ask for John’s assistance changing his bandages.  
  
It had been a complete nightmare.  
  
Now it seems they’re back to the stalemate they had fallen into directly following the wedding. Contrary to popular belief, John isn’t an idiot. He’d seen the look of desperate yearning in Sherlock’s eyes immediately after he’d shot Magnussen. He knows exactly what it is Sherlock had been willing to sacrifice to keep John safe, but somehow the knowledge just seems to agitate him further. The idea that Sherlock had been willing to give up everything he is; to abandon the work, his freedom and his very life for John (again) is both terrifyingly thrilling and phenomenally infuriating.  
  
John sighs and pushes his eggs around his plate, appetite lost. He feels entirely hopeless; stuck in a marriage that’s completely falling apart with a woman he fell out of love with the moment she pulled the trigger that shot his best friend. If it weren’t for the baby… but that’s a terrible thought. John shovels the last few cold bites of egg into his mouth and gets up from the sofa, steeling himself for another row as he slips quietly back into the kitchen. Mary mercifully ignores him, flipping silently through another baby book, and John is slightly ashamed of the relief he feels. He gathers his thick coat and stomps out into the hall to put on his boots without a word.

 

: :  
 _Darling, I’m leaving  
Distance keeps calling me on  
Darling, come morning  
I’ll be gone_  
: :

  
The text, when it finally comes, is entirely unexpected and incredibly short:  
  
 _Dinner? SH_  
  
John nearly drops his phone twice in an effort to pull his gloves off and reply.  
  
 _God yes. where and when?_  
  
He holds his breath for exactly twelve seconds before his phone beeps again:  
  
 _Cida Thai, 7pm_  
  
John cannot help the ridiculous grin that stretches across his lips. He knows he must look completely absurd: smiling like eight kinds of fool at nothing on the Tube, but he’s so relieved he honestly can’t be bothered. His shift that afternoon seems to drag on with unnatural slowness and he worries for a moment that his wristwatch has stopped. He tries valiantly to ignore the way his heart leaps at six o’clock when he finally shuffles himself out the door, but the anticipation is so sharp on his tongue it tastes nearly acidic.  
  
He forces himself to slow down, to calm his jangling nerves before he makes a complete fool of himself. He doesn’t want to appear too eager, but there’s an aching emptiness in his chest now that is uncomfortably reminiscent of the days when he thought Sherlock was still dead. The situation with Mary is becoming increasingly stressful and the intolerable sense of claustrophobia he feels every time he steps foot in their flat leaves him longing for any type of relieving normality.  
  
John’s heart gives a great heave of pleasure when he rounds the corner of James Street, feeling himself relax as the familiar bustle of London surrounds him instantly. God, how he’s missed this: the crush of people, the scent of car exhaust and fried fish, the tang of London’s ever-present haze hovering just behind his teeth. The suburbs are calm and quiet: the perfect place to raise a family, but John still doesn’t feel as though he belongs there, and that’s half the problem. He misses the chaos of London; the lights and sounds of millions of people packed into a limited space. He aches for the anonymity of the big city, for the excitement of the metropolis, for the buzz and hype of the constantly changing surroundings.  
  
He hates the suburbs with a droning sense of boredom; the crippling monotony of overly friendly neighbors, of uninteresting conversation and shops that close at 6pm, and a part of him wonders if that makes him damaged somehow.  
  
Cida Thai looms into view and John takes a steadying breath, bracing himself for whatever is about to come. He feels giddy with anticipation and nearly sick with excitement, but he tries to tamp it back lest he seem obnoxiously keen. Sherlock will notice either way, but John would like to keep some semblance of dignity intact.  
  
John swings the door open to the tiny Thai restaurant, inhaling the delicious scent of coconut milk and curry spices. He pauses in the doorway, noting the way the very air seems to vibrate with tension as his eyes sweep the small interior and settle on the long lines of Sherlock’s immaculate bespoke suit. He’s slightly slumped in the chair, eyes focused on his tablet as he types out a rapid response on the digital keys. He seems to notice John’s scrutiny, though, because he pauses mid-word and glances up, and John feels his breath catch. Sherlock’s entire face seems to brighten for a split second as their eyes lock before it visibly shutters off again. He stands as John shuffles over and seems impossibly uncertain.  
  
John doesn’t know what to do. He thinks vaguely of extending his hand in greeting, but that seems overly formal and so out of place for them it would be ridiculous. He wants to lean forward and bury his face in Sherlock’s exposed collarbone; breathe in the warm, rich scent of him and hold him close until the rest of the world falls away. He wants to rest the palms of his hands on the flat of Sherlock’s chest and feel his very breath as it enters and exits his lungs. He wants to slide his fingers into soft, dark hair and tug those absurdly full lips against his; wants to lick and suck at Sherlock’s tongue until both of them are trembling and unable to remember why they’d ever stopped this madness in the first place.  
  
He doesn’t do any of these things.  
  
Sherlock brings his hands to his trouser pockets and nods once, and John vaguely wonders if Sherlock is fighting similar impulses, and then wonders if that’s an inappropriate assumption. The very corner of Sherlock’s mouth seems to twitch for a moment before he pulls out the chair opposite his and gestures John towards it. John snorts a little in amusement, but sits obediently, marveling at just how much this feels like a proper date. Then he realizes he’s just put himself in the role of the woman and shakes his head ruefully.  
  
They sit in silence for a few tense moments as John makes a deliberate effort to look through the menu. They’ve been here before, and he knows from previous experience that their red curry is deliciously spicy without being overwhelming, but the Kao Soi noodles look particularly good tonight, so he thinks he’ll indulge.  
  
Sherlock is watching him through his curls; head bent over his own menu as though he’s not going to order Rama Chicken, though John knows better. He smiles at the thought and feels his breath catch when Sherlock lifts his gaze— clear blue shining through the long, dark fringe of his lashes.  
  
“It’s good to see you,” Sherlock says softly.  
  
John exhales a little too loudly and grabs for his water glass, sipping a bit too fast and coughing a little. “Yeah,” he finally says, ignoring the way Sherlock’s eyes are shining with mirth. “Yeah— you too.”  
  
John can feel the flush rising up the back of his neck and curses himself silently. Three bloody weeks of silence, then one kind word and he’s shining like a veritable beacon in the middle of a tiny hole-in-the-wall restaurant. He licks his lips and feels the warmth spread through his chest as Sherlock’s eyes immediately hone in on his mouth.  John can feel the spark of arousal begin low in his belly and shifts a little as his trousers become slightly tighter. Sherlock’s eyes travel down his torso to where it disappears behind the table and then rakes his gaze back up to John’s, heat and possessiveness practically palpable in the air between them.  
  
Someone clears his throat at the side of the table and just like that the tension is broken. Sherlock orders for both of them and John feels his mouth stretch into the achingly familiar bemused smile as the waiter writes down an order of Rama Chicken and Kao Soi.  
  
“Alright,” John says, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms in mock sternness. “Out with it. How did you know?”  
  
Sherlock smirks and takes a delicate sip of his water. “Obvious, John,” he drawls, clearly enjoying the attention. “The creases in your trousers say you’ve been sitting in your office chair more today than usual— likely filling out overdue paperwork. There’s a splash on your left sleeve from the cup of tomato soup you had for lunch, but the way you’re favoring your right hip says your lunch was interrupted, so: obviously hungry— hungrier than one small bowl of curry will satisfy. Your eyes lingered on the right hand side of the menu for point-six seconds longer than the left, and you didn’t shift once, which indicates you’re not particularly worried about the price of the meal. You’ve given yourself leave to indulge— pointless, I assure you, since I will be paying for dinner no matter what you order— but you wanted something different, something spicy, something… satisfying.”  
  
Sherlock’s eyes are sharply focused, but at the last word, his gaze dips back down to John’s lips for a split second.  
  
“Brilliant,” John breathes, completely unable to stop the stupid, besotted grin from sliding into place.  Sherlock blinks slowly at him once before his cheekbones tinge faintly pink. John finds it a little too charming and has to physically hold himself back from diving forward and following the way the flush is travelling up Sherlock’s long, elegant neck.  
  
“I’ve missed you, John,” Sherlock murmurs, low and intimate. It hits John like a javelin and he suddenly wants nothing more than to sink back into the comforting normality of life at Baker Street.  
  
“I’m sorry,” John mumbles, feeling torn apart. He finds he’s unable to meet Sherlock’s eyes and instead rests his gaze on the condensation on Sherlock’s water glass, collecting and dripping from one large thumbprint.  
  
“John,” Sherlock says, and there’s something entirely wrong in his voice. John glances up and feels his breath catch. Sherlock looks so utterly raw, so absolutely sincere in his concern and John feels something break in his chest.  
  
“It’s fine, Sherlock,” he says softly, even though it obviously isn’t. Sherlock regards him with intensity for a moment before nodding once and fixing his stare at the chintz tablecloth between them. The moment stretches, silent and uncomfortable for what feels like a lifetime before their waiter finally settles their plates between them.  
  
“So,” John finally says, voice overly cheerful and tinny even to his own ears, “What’s new with you? Any sign of Moriarty?”  
  
Sherlock scoffs and the moment is lost. John watches as Sherlock unwraps a pair of chopsticks, running his thumb along the ends to ensure no unpleasant splinters before stirring the peanut sauce into his broccoli. “Moriarty is dead. Whoever plastered his face across London, however, is infuriatingly difficult to track. We have very little evidence to even begin our search, but I am confident it’s only a matter of days before whomever it is strikes again.”  
  
John feels his heart clench at the thought, his brain honing in on one tiny word of the diatribe even as he files the information away for later perusal. “We?” he says softly, uncomfortably aware of how small his voice sounds.  
  
“Sorry?” Sherlock says around a mouthful of rice.  
  
“You said: ‘ _We_ have very little evidence.’ Who is ‘we’?”  
  
Sherlock blinks up at him in mild confusion, a portion of chicken suspended absurdly in the air near his open lips. “Mycroft, Lestrade and their respective minions of course.”  
  
John feels a cold lump of rejection sink through to his stomach, followed by a hot surge of jealousy. He’s suddenly not hungry anymore, and he drags his own fork through the mess of noodles on his plate. “Right,” he manages after a moment. He’s peripherally aware of Sherlock’s laser-beam scrutiny, and tries to blank his own features, knowing he has absolutely no right to feel so left out; not when he clearly chose Mary, chose to move out to the suburbs where he couldn’t just drop everything and run across town to send a text in the middle of the night, but the actual proof of it hurts more than he could have expected.  
  
He chances a glance up through his lashes and catches Sherlock’s expression, brow furrowed in concentration. Sherlock puts his chopsticks down and sits back in his chair, his face clearing into understanding before clouding over again in concern.  
  
“I’ve upset you,” he mutters candidly.  
  
“No.” John swallows around the lie, forcing his mouth to turn up in what he hopes is a reassuring smile.  
  
“John,” Sherlock says, and his voice is so pleading, so soft John cannot help but look up. Sherlock looks completely open, his face devoid of any sarcasm or manipulation. “It was never my intention to exclude you. Forgive me, but I was actually attempting some tact.”  
  
John snorts a little and feels his chest lighten entirely. Sherlock returns his smile tentatively, and John feels utterly ridiculous. “It’s fine, Sherlock. Really. Tact doesn’t much suit you anyway.”  
  
Sherlock’s smile is slow and secretive, and John lets himself drown in it for a few glorious seconds before he moves the conversation back towards the current case. He tries to pay attention, really he does, but it’s incredibly difficult to focus on anything more than Sherlock’s rumbling baritone as he fires off rapid details about MI5 and Mycroft’s influence, and the fact that they’re apparently looking for someone who managed to slip the net of Sherlock’s culling. John is entranced by the way Sherlock’s mouth moves as he speaks; lips and teeth caressing each syllable, enunciating everything with such posh elocution it sounds positively decadent.    
  
“John?”  
  
John blinks rapidly and gives himself a mental shake, realizing Sherlock is looking directly at him now with a tinge of warm bemusement lingering behind his eyes. “Right. Sorry,” he says, clearing his throat and trying desperately not to blush like a sixth former. “What were you saying?”  
  
Sherlock smirks slightly and leans back a little in his chair, the position elongating his already lengthy torso and John swallows harshly around the wave of acute arousal that spikes through his chest. “I was merely saying that I have yet to find the connection between Moriarty and whomever it is impersonating him, but that it likely has something to do with Magnussen and CAM Global. Nothing important, clearly,” Sherlock drawls with a hint of wry sarcasm, but his eyes are sparkling in a way that makes John’s heart throb painfully behind his ribs and he lets the moment go.  
  
“Right,” John says again, unable to hold back his own grin at Sherlock’s obvious display.  
  
“You seem distracted, John,” Sherlock murmurs, low and seductive, and surely he must know what he’s doing to John’s self-control.  
  
“Sorry,” John says weakly, taking an overly large swallow of water and nearly spluttering as Sherlock’s smirk deepens. “I just-- it’s been a rough few weeks is all.” God, he hopes he doesn’t sound as ridiculously pathetic as he feels. He can feel the damning blush creeping back up the sides of his neck and he hopes desperately that Sherlock will have enough sense not to mention it.  
  
“Understandable,” Sherlock muses. He watches John for a few more minutes while they both pick at their meals. After the silence becomes strained again, Sherlock says: “How is Mary?”  
  
John winces as though he’s been stabbed. “Can we… not talk about her tonight?”  
  
Sherlock eyes him speculatively for a moment before nodding briefly with a short, “Of course.”  
  
“Sorry,” John says lamely. “It’s just— can tonight just be about us? I mean—” He can feel himself blushing again and wonders vaguely when he reverted back to his teens.  
  
“It’s alright, John,” Sherlock murmurs with the beginnings of a warm smile. “For tonight, it’s just the two of us.”  
  
“Yeah. Yeah, that’s—” John starts, feeling all of the tension drain slowly from his shoulders. A slow smile spreads across his own mouth and he feels that familiar rush of warm arousal as Sherlock’s gaze catches his own. “Perfect.”  
  
John allows himself to linger as long as he can, re-filling his coffee twice and ignoring the way his mobile keeps vibrating in his pocket. Sherlock doesn’t seem to be in a hurry either, but eventually they are the last two people in the restaurant, so it is clearly past time to go. They get up reluctantly and make their way to the door, standing a little too close together as always. They turn up the street and begin walking by mutual, unspoken agreement. It’s a clear night, but the early February wind is biting and damp, and John feels himself shiver despite his heavy coat.  
  
Baker Street is quiet and still when they round the corner, and John feels his heart twist painfully beneath his ribs at the sight of the familiar dark painted door.  
  
“At the risk of sounding unbearably cliché,” Sherlock begins, his words puffing little clouds of heat into the air between them. It’s all John can do not to chase the warmth back into Sherlock’s mouth. “Would you like to come up?”  
  
The words are perfectly bland, but John feels them like a frisson through his skin. He sees the request for what it is and he feels a shiver of arousal spiral dangerously down his spine. For one beautiful moment, he allows himself to entertain the fantasy; to imagine following Sherlock back up to the flat and joining him in bed, kissing him breathless and claiming what is most definitely on offer. But then he remembers Mary and the baby, and the small flare of hope curdles thick and fast in his gut. “I shouldn’t,” he says instead, swallowing back the well of disappointment that opens perilously close to his heart.  
  
“Of course,” Sherlock replies lightly, nodding and shifting his weight towards the door.  
  
“Thank you,” John blurts. “Tonight was… yeah. It was nice.”  
  
Sherlock’s lips stretch into a slow smile and John feels the warmth of it right down to his toes. Sherlock’s gaze is heavy and loaded as he leans forward again, directly into John’s personal space, and for one dizzying moment, John thinks Sherlock is about to kiss him. Instead, Sherlock curls long fingers into John’s collar and stiffens the fabric against the chill wind, tucking John’s wool scarf against his neck with a firm tug.  
  
“Good night, John,” Sherlock murmurs, and then he’s gone.  
  
John stands in the street for many minutes after the door clicks closed, barely feeling the cold as his heart warms infinitely. He doesn’t even realize he’s grinning until he’s halfway home.

 

: :  
 _She has my heart, but it is breaking  
Cause it knows that deep inside she still believes  
That there will ever come a morning when I’m staying  
And not gathering to leave_  
: :

  
“Where were you?” Mary demands the minute he steps through the front door.  
  
John grits his teeth and intentionally slows his movements, peeling his wet coat off and hanging it to dry carefully before finally turning to her.  
  
“I went to dinner,” John says, irrationally proud of the calmness in his tone.  
  
“You might have phoned.” She looks furious: one small hand resting protectively over the bulge of her belly, the other fisted tightly at her side.  
  
“What’s the point?” John murmurs, low and harsh. “Don’t tell me you suddenly care where I am.” He huffs out a self-deprecating laugh.  
  
Mary presses her lips together tightly and John feels an uncomfortable twinge of regret. But then he remembers why he’s so angry lately and the brilliant night he just had with Sherlock, and bitter resentment seeps back through his veins like lead.  
  
“You were with _him_ , weren’t you?” Mary hisses, and John feels his blood curdle into hard, icy anger.  
  
“And if I was?” he says lightly, striding into the kitchen with more confidence than he feels. He loses himself in the calming ritual of tea: rinsing out the kettle before filling it and clicking it on, reaching forward with shaky hands to retrieve mugs from the cupboard. He can sense her burning gaze on the back of his neck and can feel the uncomfortable awareness of his own emotional betrayal welling up behind his lips.  
  
“Every time,” she mutters somewhere behind him and John glances into the reflective surface of the microwave just in time to catch her look of bitter resignation. He turns and leans back against the worktop, surveying her with a cool indifference he absolutely does not feel.  
  
“He’s my best friend,” he states calmly, ignoring the way his own pulse is racing at the omission of so much more. She snorts and flashes him a toothy, malicious grin that sends a chill down his spine.  
  
“Is that all he is, John? Really?” Her voice has taken on that blood-curdling, sing-song quality that John associates with insane laughter and the smell of semtex. “Even after all this time, you’re still lying to yourself about it all. I’d have hoped that we were well past this by now.”  
  
John’s jaw clenches so hard he can feel his teeth protest in agony. “I’m here, aren’t I?”  
  
“You’re not though, are you,” Mary says, her voice oddly blank. “You’ve not been here since last October. Were you ever really here at all, I wonder?”  
  
“What do you want me to say?” John grinds out, sick of the taunting, of the passive-aggressive arguments and the stress headaches and the overwhelming, all-consuming swell of guilt. “Do you want me to tell you I’m happy? Because we both know that’s so far beyond true it’s laughable. I don’t know what you expect from me, Mary, but I’m trying as best I can to make this work.”  
  
“Why bother?” she demands, and there’s the raw edge of tears in her voice. John feels his anger dissolve into a chasm of despair as her hands clutch instinctively around her swollen belly.  
  
“You don’t mean that,” he says so quietly, he can barely hear himself over the pounding in his ears.  
  
“Don’t I,” she spits and then winces as the baby shifts again.  
  
John immediately moves forward, arms outstretched to shepherd her into a kitchen chair, but she flinches away from him with a hiss of warning and he drops his hands to his sides instead. John clenches his jaw again in frustration, but remains still as she steadies herself against the refrigerator.  
  
“There’s always been something about you, John,” she says eventually, her voice suddenly cold with resigned fury. “There’s a part of you that’s entirely untouchable—locked away behind stoicism and hardened resolve. I used to think it was what made you interesting: that bit of you that I couldn’t have. But now I see you’re just another predictable man, full of denial and lies—”  
  
“Don’t,” John bites out, rage clouding his vision in a deep, red haze. “Don’t you ever accuse _me_ of lying to _you_.”  
  
Her high, hysterical laughter is completely unexpected and John’s focus is immediately thrown. She cackles for a few minutes more, and John can feel his initial confusion morph disconcertingly into bubbling, metallic hatred. Her face is a study in sarcastic contempt: the ugly, bitter edge of jealousy darkening her eyes into something unrecognizable.  
  
“Jesus Christ, you are boring,” she wheezes eventually and John feels his own face blank into shock. “Don't try to guilt me, John Watson,” she huffs with a contemptuous shake of her head. “At least I never cheated on you.”  
  
John feels his blood run hot and then cold, the familiar, fatal anger seething forward. “You encouraged it!” he shouts.  
  
“It was the only way to keep you!” she shouts back, and John feels his fury like a poison, hot and hard in the pit of his stomach.  
  
“Right,” John says, trying for calm and missing by about a mile. “I’ve had enough. I never lied to you, Mary. Not once. You knew exactly what you were getting yourself into when you married me. I only wish I could say the same.”  
  
He turns on his heel and marches out of the room, but not before he sees the look of utter hatred seep across her face like a contaminate. He throws the door closed with a satisfying slam and yanks at his jacket, slipping his arms in as he hurls himself down the stairs two at a time. If he hurries, he can just catch the last Tube and if he's very, very lucky, Sherlock will let him stay the night.

 

: :  
 _She is the calm in the center of my storm  
She has her fingers through my hair_  
: :

  
The house is shockingly quiet when he lets himself in; all the rooms dark and silent. Sherlock is clearly out, and John allows himself to wallow in self-pity for all of ten seconds before he nods decisively and marches his way across the sitting room. Baker Street is cold and unforgiving without Sherlock's warm presence, and John feels the first tendrils of black despair reaching forward to draw him away. He sighs heavily and removes his shoes, fetching the tartan blanket from the back of his armchair— still _his_ , even after all these years— and tossing it carelessly towards the sofa. He sinks into the worn leather and lets his mind wander over this complete cock-up of an evening.  
  
How did he manage to fuck up his life this badly?  
  
Time seems to slow to an unendurable crawl as he lays there staring at the familiar ceiling, debating whether or not to simply give in and drown his sorrows in the bottom of a bottle. He’s not even entirely sure what he’s doing here, but he does know that if he’d stayed in their flat one second longer, he would probably have said something unforgivable.  
  
All he wants is to have his life back. Ever since Sherlock fell from the roof of St Bart’s, John’s life has been nothing but uncertainty and destruction. He’s forgiven Sherlock as best he can, and some part of him even understands why Sherlock had to do what he did, but John will feel the residual anger seep through his consciousness at odd intervals, causing his entire worldview to shift violently without his consent. He longs for the days before Moriarty’s net had tightened; back when he and Sherlock lived together in this little flat. That was the last time John can remember being truly happy, and the thought scares the hell out of him.  
  
John closes his eyes and tries to fight off the memories that threaten to override his senses. If he strains his ears, he can hear Sherlock’s violin: sharp and poignant as he’d fluttered around the sitting room between cases. He misses the easy camaraderie they’d shared, back when their biggest threat had been Sherlock’s incessant, childish boredom. Now it seems his entire life has gone to shit without him noticing or bothering to fight.  
  
Finally giving over to temptation, John heaves himself up off the sofa and makes his way into the kitchen, dodging around beakers and bunsen burners until he clears enough space to hoist himself up onto the worktop. He reaches up to the very back of the top cabinet and pulls down a slightly dusty bottle of whiskey before lowering himself back to the floor and reaching for a tumbler.  
  
He’s not even aware of when he falls asleep, the burden of the day and the alcohol in his system lulling him into restless dreams before he even finishes two measures. He has the vague sense of something shifting in his periphery, and then there are long fingers sweeping gently through his hair. John hums in contentment and sinks further into the worn cushion beneath his head, inhaling deeply and registering the scents of _home_.  
  
“John,” Sherlock’s voice purrs in his ear and John shifts towards the sound, desperate to hold onto the dream for as long as he can.  
  
“If you insist on sleeping on the sofa, I will not be held responsible for the pain in your shoulder come morning.”  
  
John’s eyes snap open and he winces as the dim light of the lamp catches him fully in the face. Sherlock is smiling softly down at him, his expression full of such plain affection John is worried he’s still dreaming.  
  
“Sh’lock?” John slurs, his tongue feeling heavy and foreign in his mouth. Belatedly, he realizes he still tastes of whiskey and raises his wrist towards his eyes. According to his watch, he’s been asleep for just under three hours, and John sighs as he scrubs his hands over his face. “I’m sorry,” he tries again.  
  
“You know you’re welcome any time, John,” Sherlock says, flexing his fingers where they still rest in John’s hair. John cannot help the way his neck arches into the contact, but he winces again as his shoulder twinges painfully.  
  
“Alright, I concede,” John grimaces. Sherlock snorts a bit and pulls back enough to help John up off the sofa, steadying him when John’s legs wobble dangerously beneath him.  
  
“Christ,” John huffs, trying to ignore the woozy pain that seems to radiate through his neck. He can still feel the pull of the alcohol swimming merrily through his veins and he knows full well that being alone with Sherlock at the moment is not the wisest decision, but he’s too bone-weary to do anything more than lean into Sherlock’s solid warmth. He just wants to feel something other than wrath and confusion right now.  
  
He doesn’t protest as Sherlock steers him gently towards the bedroom, sidestepping the irrelevant token arguments to the contrary in favor of clean sheets and the promise of sleep. Sherlock’s bed is warm and comfortable, and even though John’s only slept here once before, it somehow feels more welcoming and familiar than his own bed in the suburbs.  
  
John sinks into the sheets gratefully, inhaling the warmth of residual chemicals and hints of Sherlock’s expensive aftershave. He knows he shouldn’t be here, tucked away and content in Sherlock’s bed while his very pregnant wife is halfway across London and in a mighty temper, but he cannot fathom anything he’d like to do less than speak with her at the moment.  
  
He’s vaguely aware of the sounds of drawers opening and fabric rustling, but it isn’t until he hears the door creak that he realizes Sherlock is about to leave.  
  
“Sherlock?” he calls softly, hating just how vulnerable he sounds right now.  
  
John hears him pause at the door and then the telltale shifting of old floorboards as Sherlock nears the bed again. John’s eyelids are heavy with exhaustion and alcohol, but he opens them blearily to find Sherlock watching him with a cautious sense of hesitation that’s heartbreaking.  
  
Silently, John peels back the covers in a clear invitation, hoping to convey an air of confidence he certainly doesn’t feel. Sherlock stares at him, unblinking, for several seconds before he shifts his weight, clearly indecisive. He seems to be teetering on the edge of decision and John holds his breath as he waits for an answer. “I’m not sure that’s wise,” he says, so low John can barely hear him.  
  
“Please,” John whispers, and it’s more than a simple plea: it’s trust and acceptance and horrible, white-hot need, and John knows Sherlock can see it all written across his face like a map, but he’s too knackered to care.  
  
They stare at each other there in the wee hours of the morning, each of them weighing truth against years of helpless longing until finally, _finally_ , Sherlock’s lips curl up into a soft smile. And then he’s moving forward, plucking the duvet from John’s fingers and sliding between the sheets, and John feels his heart lightening for the first time in months.  
  
Sherlock curls onto his side and reaches over to switch off the lamp, plunging the room into the dark grey of pre-dawn morning. John hovers in uncertainty for a split second before he scoots forward and wraps himself around Sherlock’s long back, tucking one knee between Sherlock’s slim thighs and resting his forehead at the nape of Sherlock’s neck. He feels Sherlock’s breath hitch for a fraction of a second before he seems to simply melt into John, all loose limbs and bony elbows, and it’s the most wonderfully natural thing John has ever experienced in his life.  
  
“Go to sleep, John,” Sherlock murmurs, but John can tell he’s smiling still.  
  
“Good night, Sherlock,” he mutters in reply before sleep claims him again.  


 

: :  
 _She is beauty, she is graceful  
In her poison, she is gentle in her care_  
: :

  
Mary’s waters break when they are out at a crime scene. John would have ignored the buzz of his mobile if Sherlock’s hadn't chimed at the exact same moment. Instead he feels the slick, sinking sensation of imminent disaster followed by a thick swoop of near panic when he realizes what this must be about. He wrenches his mobile out of his pocket and checks the message frantically, confirming what he already knows.  
  
“Sherlock,” John chokes, his voice oddly toneless and flat.  
  
“—and if you’d had half a brain, you would have seen the way his fingers were only covered in burns on one side of the—”  
  
“ _Sherlock_ ,” John says again, stronger this time.  
  
“What,” Sherlock demands, abrasive focus shifting abruptly to John. He takes a breath as though he’s about to deliver some undoubtedly scathing retort, but something on John’s face makes him pause. His mouth snaps closed with an audible click of teeth and he visibly pales.  
  
“Where?” he says shortly.  
  
“Royal London,” John replies, legs already shifting his weight and moving him towards the main road.  
  
“Oi! Sherlock,” Lestrade shouts, his short strides catching them up quickly. “You can’t just bugger off without explanation—”  
  
“Mary’s gone into labor,” Sherlock clips out. “I’ll text you the rest.” And then his large hand is splayed across the small of John’s back, pushing him bodily into the cheap leather seat of a taxi and they’re speeding off in the mid-afternoon traffic.  
  
John tries to take a breath, but his throat seems entirely constricted. He feels numb with shock and hot with guilt at not being there when she clearly needed him. It seems too soon, the enormity of the situation suddenly glaringly apparent. They’ve been talking about this baby for so long it had almost seemed like she would never come, but now that the moment has finally arrived, John realizes just how unprepared he really is. The nursery is painted, all furniture and supplies in carefully stacked order, but he feels as though they’ve been glossing over the real issues with good intentions and purposefully avoided conversations. It’s the worst kind of situation to bring a child into, and John can feel his own woeful inadequacies grating on his mind like shrapnel.    
  
He’s about to be a father, and he’s frankly terrified.  
  
“John,” Sherlock intones softly and John feels his head shift towards the source of his name, but his vision seems unaccountably blurred. Sherlock’s brow furrows slightly and he reaches across the seat to plant one large hand on John’s knee, his delicate fingers squeezing once before simply resting there. John feels the hot weight of it like a brand: grounding and searing in equal measures.  
  
“It’s going to be alright,” Sherlock says gently, his thumb rubbing small circles across John’s patella. John blinks absently at him, his head feeling full of cotton wool. Sherlock offers him a bland smile that doesn’t reach his eyes and John wonders idly if this is what dying feels like.  
  
“I’m not—” John chokes, startled at the brittleness in his own voice. “I can’t—” The raw edge of panic seems to creep around his very lungs and John can feel his breath starting to come in ragged gasps.  
  
“John,” Sherlock says again, his voice firm and commanding, and John latches onto it like a drowning man. Sherlock turns towards him on the seat, both of his hands reaching forward to frame John’s jaw. “John, look at me.”  
  
John’s eyes blink hazily open and he winces at the fierce intensity in Sherlock’s eyes. “You’re going to be fine.” Sherlock’s fingers stroke gently down John’s temple and it’s all he can do not to lean into it, half of his brain stuck on numb disbelief and the other half melting at the intimacy of Sherlock’s touch. “You’re not your father,” Sherlock continues in the same soothing baritone. “You are capable and caring and by far the most dependable man I’ve ever met. Your loyalty is unwavering and you are fiercely protective of anyone you deem worthy of your attentions. Any child would be lucky to have you.”  
  
John feels his mouth open in utter shock, Sherlock’s words piercing through the thick haze of urgency and burrowing into the deep recesses of his mind. He feels oddly calm in the wake of Sherlock’s assessment, and his breathing begins to unconsciously slow into something vaguely normal. Sherlock holds his gaze steady for a few more breathless heartbeats before he presses forward unexpectedly and places a gentle kiss to John’s lips.  
  
John’s eyes fall closed automatically and he leans into the kiss, desperation and overwhelming chaos overriding his senses for a few dizzying seconds. Sherlock pulls back after only a moment, but it feels like something monumental has shifted irrevocably between them. John blinks his eyes open to find Sherlock staring at his mouth with such an unguarded look of longing, John feels his answering ache radiating through his chest.  
  
“Sorry,” Sherlock murmurs, tearing his eyes away and blinking rapidly.  
  
“I—” John starts, unable to form complete thoughts at the moment. But then the cab slows and John sees the hulking silhouette of the Royal London Hospital in his peripheral vision, and then Sherlock is leaning forward to pay the driver, ushering John through the door and into the open air. John feels his knees begin to wobble at the implication of the swinging Maternity doors, but he steadies himself with a hand on Sherlock’s sleeve. Sherlock strides forward with purpose and brings them both to the reception desk with a curt word. John feels like he’s suspended in warm liquid, all of his senses slow and unsteady as he belatedly registers the sounds of a busy hospital waiting room.  
  
Sherlock is speaking urgently to the woman behind the counter, who is infuriatingly calm and collected while John’s whole world seems to shudder and strain under the impact of his impending fatherhood. He can’t hear anything over the ringing in his ears, his own pulse seeming thick and slow on the back of his tongue. Sherlock’s arm is warm and strong beneath his palm and he grips tightly at the thick wool of Sherlock’s coat as he sways on his feet.  
  
“Come on, John,” Sherlock says gently, grabbing his wrist and pulling him through a set of double doors, along a corridor and into a lift. John stares at his own reflection in the metal doors: his face pale, his eyes wide and disbelieving, his jaw set with grim determination. He looks like he’s going into battle and incongruous as it is, it seems oddly fitting.  
  
The lift pings and he’s through the doors, following along in Sherlock’s footsteps as they approach one of the many cheerfully painted rooms, the number barely registering. Sherlock steps abruptly to the side and pushes John in ahead of him. John swallows heavily and steps into the room, noting absently that Mary’s heart rate monitor is beeping steadily, her vitals looking generally good.  
  
Mary is sweaty and grimacing from the nest of blankets, her face screwed up in discomfort as she tries to shift on the narrow bed. She seems impossibly huge, like her belly cannot even begin to contain the life within. John exhales sharply and feels his medical background surge into place, falling into the comfort of routine as he approaches the bed with unfaltering steps.  
  
“John,” Mary breathes with something that sounds suspiciously like relief. She tries to shift again, but winces instead as the contractions cramp across her distended abdomen. She grits her teeth tightly and breathes heavily for a few seconds before easing herself back into the pillows.  
  
“I’m here,” John says stupidly, moving to her side as though drawn there magnetically. He takes her hand and tries not to curse as she squeezes tightly. She blinks up at him and in that one moment, she looks just like the woman he fell in love with: all open ease and aching vulnerability, her hair plastered unflatteringly across her sweaty brow, but her mouth curved into a heartbreakingly relieved smile. It’s the first time they’ve looked at each other without vitriol in what feels like a lifetime, and John feels his entire chest heave with renewed emotion.  
  
“How do you feel?” John asks, smoothing his fingers through her fringe and ignoring the way she sucks in a sharp breath at the action.  
  
“Oh, just grand,” she grits out, but she flashes him a tense smile that he gratefully returns. John hooks his ankle around the cheap plastic chair behind him and eases his way into it, keeping Mary’s hand level as his height changes. She squeezes his fingers again and makes a pained noise, shifting until she’s partially on her side before blowing a long breath out through her teeth.  
  
“They’re close then,” John observes, unconsciously counting the minutes between contractions and finding them worryingly short. Mary just nods and grips the handrail tightly. They’re quiet for a few minutes, regarding each other cautiously amid the beeps and clamors of the medical equipment. John feels his heart clench painfully at the hesitation between them. It shouldn’t be like this; mistrust and accusation obscuring the reality that they are about to have a baby together. This is no way to bring a child into the world.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, his voice faltering a little. “I should have been home. I knew better, but there was a case, and I left anyway—”  
  
“No, _I’m_ sorry,” Mary interrupts. “I’ve been nothing but horrible to you, and you don’t deserve it, John. You really don’t.” She looks up at him imploringly, and John feels something behind his ribs break. He leans forward and carefully places a soft kiss to her temple, firmly ignoring the way his stomach clenches in confused anxiety.  
  
“Oh, John,” Mary whispers, and John is horrified to find that she’s crying. His reply is swallowed up by a thin wail as Mary doubles over, clutching at her swollen belly and pressing her forehead into John’s chest.  
  
“Breathe,” he reminds her, hands automatically stroking soothing fingers into the back of her neck. It’s as though all the stilted arguments between them have entirely vanished, dissolved in the face of such crushing circumstance. Mary fists her small hands into the front of his jumper and groans again, breathing in a quick pattern John barely recognizes from the few classes he’d actually attended with her. He seems suddenly woefully inadequate to the task, but he falls back on his medical training for guidance.  
  
“Where’s Sherlock?” she asks between huffs of labored breath and John is startled to realize he has absolutely no idea.  
  
“I—” he starts, glancing towards the empty doorway and back to her. She’s watching him carefully, her eyes suddenly guarded and John feels something twist deep in his chest. “I’m not sure. He was right behind me…” he trails off, knowing how weak it sounds.  
  
She looks like she’s about to say something more, but another set of contractions grip her and her breath whooshes out on a loud groan.  
  
“Right,” John mutters decisively, and reaches forward to press the call button, and the moment is lost among a flurry of motion as the midwife and a nurse rush into the room. They herd him gently to the side, easing Mary onto her back with careful efficiency and placing her heels into the pull-out stirrups  that unfold from the bottom of the bed. John stares in dumbfounded shock as the midwife steps cleanly between her legs, prodding gently at her abdomen and murmuring to her in low, soothing tones. Mary is fully dilated now, and part of John knows that this is it: the moment they’ve been waiting for for what seems like ages. He’s suddenly nauseous and hears himself mutter a stilted apology before rushing towards the bathroom in a fit of sheer cowardice.    
  
John blinks at himself in the mirror, noting the pallor of his skin, the clammy way his forehead seems to gleam in the light before turning on the taps and splashing cold water onto his face. He takes a few deep breaths, gathering what’s left of his shredded confidence, and steels himself for what’s about to be the biggest event of his life. He nods at his reflection once, clenches his jaw and reenters the room, moving hurriedly over to take his place beside his wife.  
  
He reaches her side just as she screams, her lovely features twisted in pain as she pushes as hard as she can. John grabs at her hand, bracing himself for the pain as she grips his fingers tightly, her entire body convulsing with effort.  
  
“John?” she pants, bleary eyes opening towards his face. She looks lost and terrified, and John feels himself calming in contrast.  
  
“You’re doing really well,” he assures her, taking the proffered damp flannel from the nurse and wiping the sweat from her forehead. John can tell from the midwife’s tone that it won’t be long now. Fear and panic grip him unexpectedly, but he tamps them viciously back. Everything is happening absurdly fast and John feels his rationality deteriorating with each huff of Mary’s quick breath. He glances frantically around the room, his gaze snaring unexpectedly on a dark shadow in the doorway.  
  
Sherlock is watching with open curiosity, but keeping an uncharacteristically respectful distance. He must feel John’s gaze on him because he looks up sharply and their eyes seem to lock, and John sinks into the familiar falling sensation; Sherlock’s scrutiny grounding in the exact way John needs right now. Sherlock’s lips curl into a sad little smile and John feels his heart spasm in response, his lips tingling with the memory of their brief kiss in the taxi.  
  
“One more big push,” the midwife says, cutting through the thick atmosphere and John’s attention is jerked back towards Mary. There is a grunt and a wail, and it seems like the entire universe bows in on itself as a small, choking cry breaks cleanly through the air.  
  
John watches in stunned disbelief as the doctor raises the shriveled, wet form of his daughter and the rest of the world falls away into inconsequence.  
  
   
Emmaline Abigail Watson is born on 8 March, seven pounds three ounces, twenty-one inches long. She is small and wrinkled and has a healthy set of lungs as she wails her unease to the world, but when the nurse bundles her up in a soft cloth and hands her to John, she seems the most perfect thing he’s ever seen in his life.  
  
Her eyes are a clear, deep blue and she has a small tuft of faint hair atop her tiny, perfect head. She has ten flexing fingers and ten tiny toes, and her limbs are plump and bitable and John is charmed instantly. She looks a bit like his mum and a lot like Mary, and as John moves carefully forward to place her in Mary’s arms, he finds he is ridiculously reluctant to let her go.  
  
“She’s gorgeous,” Mary breathes, looking exhausted, but finally happy. John can’t take his eyes off Emma, her small face twisted and unhappy as she squirms in her blankets. She’s arching towards Mary, who instinctively nudges aside the fabric over her breast and bares her nipple to Emma’s small mouth.  
  
John feels his face flush absurdly and glances away, suddenly intrusive and uncomfortable. He glances back across the room and is startled to see Sherlock still there, hovering indecisively in the doorway. John feels his heart clench in confused affection and he motions Sherlock into the room with a tilt of his head. Sherlock glances uncertainly between him and Mary, clearly unsure of his welcome.  
  
John turns back to Mary, only to find her eyes cold and hard again; all the warmth and uneasy camaraderie lost as quickly as it was regained. She glares at him, calculating and steady, before she seems to come to some sort of decision.  
  
“Come say hello,” Mary calls towards the doorway, plastering a tight smile across her lips. It looks all wrong, and John wonders briefly how it is she can be two completely different people at once.  
  
Sherlock shuffles into the room, uncharacteristically hesitant until he’s looming over the bed, his eyes fixed curiously on Emma’s small face. John cannot help the way his heart gives a lurch as Mary watches Sherlock speculatively. She barely seems to notice when Emma stops suckling on her, but the unhappy burble of a fully-fed baby seems to snap her out of her reverie.  
  
Sherlock looks utterly enthralled. He watches silently as Mary pulls her away and begins rubbing gently on her back, cooing at her with undisguised affection. John swallows hard around the lump in the back of his throat. He has the inexplicable urge to snatch Emma away; to hold her close and keep her from Mary’s manipulation, but he knows it’s an irrational thought. Mary’s smile is so genuine, so loving that John finds himself believing it even as every fibre of his being screams in protest.  
  
“Congratulations,” Sherlock says softly, and Mary’s smile hardens for a split second before she nods once.  
  
John doesn’t know what to do. Part of him wants to lean backwards into Sherlock’s silently supportive frame, but he knows that’s the worst thing he could do right now. He leans forward instead, cupping one rough hand gently around the back of Emma’s head and watching as she squirms a little before settling into a nap with a sweetly contented sigh. She is completely breathtaking and John feels his heart swell with love for this tiny little human.  
  
He doesn’t realize he’s practically in Mary’s lap until she shifts her shoulder, brushing across his chest with the barest pressure. John realizes he’s been staring, entranced, at Emma for a good few minutes and catches himself just before he actually climbs onto Mary’s bed. Emma makes a plaintive little noise and John feels his face beaming with unguarded warmth.  
  
When he looks up again, Mary is watching him with an unreadable expression and Sherlock is gone.  


 

: :  
 _There’s a sadness in your smiles now  
And an edge of desperation in your voice_  
: :

  
John is fairly certain he’s losing his mind. He hasn’t slept more than three consecutive hours in the past two weeks, and what little rest he’s managed to steal keeps getting interrupted by increasingly disturbing dreams. He had naively hoped that once Emma was born, he and Mary might be able to smooth out some of their rougher edges— or at least come to some kind of truce— but the more Emma screams, the more on edge they both get and their arguments grow exponentially more acerbic.  
  
“Just take her, will you?” Mary snaps, thrusting the squirming form of their daughter into his arms with barely a glance. Emma blinks up at him once before opening her mouth and bellowing her unhappiness into his ears. John tries to hold her close the way he’s been taught: cradling her against his chest with a hand supporting her tiny head, but she just screams all the louder and he feels like an utter failure.  
  
“ _Christ_ , John. Rock her. It isn’t difficult,” Mary scoffs, rolling her eyes and shaking out the burp cloth before slinging it back over her shoulder.  
  
John grits his teeth, but begins bobbing around the sitting room, feeling entirely ridiculous. Emma just wails louder, her tiny fists straining against the constricting blanket around her shoulders and John tries desperately to remember what he’s meant to do in this situation.  
  
“Oh for the love of—” Mary huffs, striding over and yanking Emma away from John. She immediately calms, blinking wetly up at her mother as Mary begins cooing softly at her with an exaggerated smile.  
  
“Daddy’s completely useless, isn’t he?” Mary sings, rocking Emma gently in her arms and shooting a poisonous glare over to John. John feels his face flush with a dangerous mixture of humiliation and rage, but he holds his temper long enough for Emma to quiet completely. He feels a wave of simultaneous relief and complete jealousy as she goes down for Mary with minimal fuss.  
  
“All I ask for is a teensy bit of effort here, John,” Mary huffs quietly as she tucks Emma into the crib.  
  
“I haven’t a clue what I’m supposed to be doing,” he whispers around clenched teeth.  
  
“Well, if you’d come to the classes with me—” she hisses back furiously, but they both still completely as Emma snuffles a little and squirms a bit before settling back down again.  
  
John swallows painfully around the lump forming at the back of his throat. He feels entirely incompetent and it’s grating on his nerves like live wires. He forces himself to keep perfectly calm as he and Mary back slowly out of the room, waiting until the door is firmly shut before rounding on her. Before he can even open his mouth to speak, though, she sags against the wall in what’s clearly defeat. It’s discomforting and unnerving, and John feels the fight blow out of him on a long sigh of exasperation.  
  
“I can’t keep doing this, John,” Mary says in a low voice, and John is startled to see that all of her anger seems to have subsided into something that looks disturbingly like weary acceptance. She looks utterly exhausted, and he feels the throb of guilt intensify in his abdomen. “I can’t take care of Emma and keep up this mockery of a marriage all by myself. If you aren’t even going to make the slightest bit of difference, what’s the point in even trying.”  
  
John swallows thickly, knowing intrinsically that this is one of those life-defining moments. He tries to muster up some modicum of his old courage as he squares his shoulders for the attack. “I’m not sure what you’re saying,” he finally manages.  
  
Mary sighs and moves towards the kitchen, filling the kettle and clicking it on before crossing her arms over her chest and leaning back against the worktop. John follows her with a deep sense of foreboding. He wonders why he’s even bothering for a brief moment before he hears Emma shift around over the baby monitor, and his heart seems to squeeze painfully in his chest.  
  
“I think we both know this isn’t working,” Mary says to her feet and John feels the bottom of his stomach drop down to his shoes.  
  
“Mary—”  
  
“ _No_ , John,” she snaps, and John swallows back around the answering swell of anger in his chest. “You can’t forgive me and I’m frankly sick to death of apologizing.”  
  
John bites his tongue. It’s right there on the edge of his teeth: the apology she’s seeking, but he just can’t bring himself to say it. He’s done with hollow words and empty promises, finished with the heavy weight of guilt laying thick across his shoulders, completely through with the desperate edge of panic that constantly dogs his every move. He takes a deep breath and steels himself for the tide of grief that’s hovering just at the edge of his emotions.  
  
“I think it would be best if you left,” Mary whispers, and John is actually, honestly stunned for a few moments. He blinks into the silence, willing the words to make any kind of sense, but they just linger there between them, cold and stark amongst the chaos in his mind.  
  
“Sorry, did you just ask me to leave?” John finally manages, the words tasting strange and foreign on his tongue.  
  
“John,” Mary says, and John can hear the desperation in her tone. He’s almost glad for it: for some acknowledgement that this utter cock-up of a marriage isn’t entirely one-sided, that somewhere deep down, the Mary he fell in love with is still in there. It’s gone before he can even blink, however; replaced with cold, hard fury.  
  
“You don’t want to be here. It’s painfully obvious and honestly, at this point, I think both Emma and I would be better off without you.”  
  
John reels back as though he’s been slapped. He knows he’s been having trouble adjusting, but to hear Mary spell it out like that in such stark terms makes his skin crawl. There’s a desperate, clawing ache beginning to tear through his stomach and he can feel his jaw hardening in response; his defenses erecting so quickly, he actually feels light headed.  
  
“So, what?” John snaps, trying to keep a tight hold on his temper. “You’re just kicking me out?”  
  
“I’m letting you go,” Mary corrects, but her words are belied by the set of her jaw. John’s head is spinning, the very ground beneath his feet seeming to shift as the implications of Mary’s words sink slowly through his brain.  
  
“Please,” John says, his voice hollow and brittle even to his own ears. “We can’t just give up. We have to think about Emma now. I know things have been rough lately, but we can try harder.”  
  
“Harder?” Mary snorts. “John, we’ve been tearing each other apart for months now. You don’t trust me, and I don’t know what else to do.”  
  
John sucks in a deep breath and holds it for the count of ten before letting it out slowly. “I’m trying,” he whispers, knowing he’s as much to blame in this as she is.  
  
“Are you?” John jerks his head up in incredulity. Mary’s face is all challenge and barely-suppressed anger.  
  
“Trust is something to be earned,” John mutters.  
  
“Yes, it is,” she spits, and John feels confusion seep up through the haze of panic.  
  
“You know how hard this is for me, Mary.”  
  
“And what about me? How am I supposed to trust you knowing that every time I fuck up, you go running back to _him_? Knowing that every time I say the wrong thing or do something to piss you off, it could be the thing that pushes you over the edge. I’m sick of walking on eggshells with you, John. I can’t do this anymore.”  
  
John stares at her blankly for a few precious seconds before all the anger and spite come flooding through his veins. He can taste it like poison on the back of his tongue: bitter resentment and humiliated fury making his vision red.  
  
“Where do you expect me to go?” he demands. Mary rolls her eyes and John feels something snap.  
“You can’t keep me from my daughter, Mary,” John grinds out. “She’s as much mine as she is yours. More so, I’d think, seeing as of the two of us, _I’m_ the one with a real identity.”  
  
The silence between them is deafening.  
  
“Get out,” Mary finally says, her voice deadly serious.  
  
“Gladly,” John mutters, and he’s across the room quicker than he’d ever thought himself capable. He vaguely registers the sound of Emma crying, no doubt woken by their less-than-hushed argument. A part of him wants to comfort her, but a bigger part needs to get out _now_. He tears through the wardrobe, digging out his army duffel and begins slinging clothes into it faster than he probably should. He knows he’s missing half of his things, but he cannot think beyond the harsh buzzing noise echoing through his ears. He can come back later, when Mary is decidedly _not_ here, to gather the rest of his possessions.  
  
With one last glance around the room, John zips the bag and hauls it over his shoulder. There’s an echoing twinge in his right leg, but he ignores it for now, concentrating instead on marching through the flat with his head held high. Mary is in the kitchen with a newly-awakened Emma over her shoulder, watching him with that darkly dispassionate gaze that leaves his teeth on edge.  
  
“You’ll be hearing from my solicitor,” John says calmly and feels the cruel rush of satisfaction as her stoic demeanor cracks a little around the edges. He stops directly in front of her and she recoils slightly, but visibly steels herself. He leans in and gently places his hand on Emma’s head, pressing a kiss into the downy softness of her hair.  
  
Mary watches him guardedly, pulling Emma back into her chest as soon as he backs up a pace. They stare at each other in silence for a few more seconds before John turns abruptly on his heel and makes his way to the hall.  
  
“You know where to find me,” he says coolly and steps cleanly out the door.  


 

: :  
 _And though she changed so much for me,  
Changing this is the one thing I could not do_  
: :

  
Sherlock doesn’t say a word when John limps slowly into the familiar, cluttered sitting room; just sweeps him with a curiously critical glance and uncurls John’s fingers from the strap of his bag. John allows himself to be shepherded into his armchair, limbs numb with shock and unexpected grief. Sherlock eyes him speculatively for a moment before fetching the whiskey down and pouring John a generous amount.  
  
“She’s left you,” he says eventually, and John is startled by how hard the words seem to hit his chest.  
  
“Not quite,” John finally replies, swallowing back the first measure of alcohol with alarming ease and reaching for the bottle at Sherlock’s elbow. Sherlock doesn’t say anything, but his raised eyebrow is enough to spark John’s temper. He defiantly pours himself another two fingers and knocks it back in one.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Sherlock intones, so softly John is half convinced he’s misheard.  
  
John snorts. “Are you?”  
  
Sherlock regards him steadily for a full minute, his razor-sharp focus seeming to cut John’s self-restraint to ribbons. It feels like every single argument between himself and Mary has suddenly been laid bare; exposed and wounded before Sherlock’s omniscient gaze. It’s at once uncomfortable and ridiculously predictable, and John snorts sardonically to himself. How fucked up is his life that he’s actually finding _comfort_ in the idea of Sherlock picking apart every detail of his failed marriage?  
  
“I am sorry, John, but not for the reasons you think,” Sherlock says eventually, and John finds himself curious in spite of himself. “I’ve come to understand that sympathy in this kind of situation is the normal response, and while I’m sympathetic to your obvious grief, I find myself unable to deny that this is something I’ve hoped for for a very long time.”  
  
John bites his lip, knowing he’s had a bit too much to drink to be faced with this kind of brutal honesty. He feels torn apart: part of him grieving the end of his marriage and all the implications that entails, and the other bit of him ridiculously, callously relieved. Sherlock watches him as he rolls the tumbler between his fingers, obviously stalling, but unable to articulate the wayward thoughts in his brain. He knows this is going to be a messy and complicated procedure and he can feel the weight of the coming months settle across his shoulders like a shroud, but there’s a small voice in the very back of his mind reminding him that he’s finally, blessedly _free._  
  
They sit there in silence for what feels like a lifetime. John feels like he’s stuck in a trance; every sound seeming to sludge through like water, every movement slow and blurred. Finally, Sherlock uncurls himself from his chair and bends forward to grasp the whiskey bottle. John doesn’t even give himself the time to think about it before his hand darts forward, wrapping tightly around one delicate, pale wrist.  
  
Sherlock stills completely, balanced absurdly halfway across John’s lap. John can feel his chest tightening, his very breath seeming to stall out in his lungs as he inhales the familiar, comforting scent of him: spiced honey and chemicals and London rain and car exhaust. Sherlock’s eyes are piercing and raw, an undeniable vulnerability in his expression that makes John’s heart ache. He can feel Sherlock’s pulse beneath his fingertips: tellingly elevated and speeding up with every passing second. Slowly, John leans forward until their breath mingles, soft puffs of air filtering gently across his open lips. Sherlock’s eyelids flutter closed and he takes a deep, shaky breath, and John cannot help his own low hum of unmitigated desire.  
  
“This is a terrible idea,” Sherlock whispers.  
  
“I know,” John murmurs back, tilting his head up just a fraction and feeling the heat between them intensify for one breathless second.  
  
“We shouldn’t.”  
  
“Probably not,” John answers, moving his head slowly to the side and feeling his nose bump gently against Sherlock’s.  
  
“You’ll regret this.” Sherlock swallows audibly and John hates the hesitation in his voice.  
  
“Never.” John closes the remaining inch between them and feels his heart soar as Sherlock falls immediately into him with a genuine groan that sounds like it comes up from his very soul. Sherlock’s mouth is hot and demanding, his tongue slick and intrusive and John feels like his entire body is combusting with joy and release. He vaguely hears the whiskey bottle drop to the floor and then Sherlock’s hands are in his hair, tilting his head back and deepening the kiss with a low moan that sounds like freedom.  
  
John finds his hands fisted tightly in the back of Sherlock’s expensive shirt and he slides them down to bracket bony hips, tugging and pulling until Sherlock climbs into his lap, knobbly knees digging into the cushion on either side of his thighs. Sherlock breaks the kiss to pant restlessly, forehead braced against John’s and eyes shut tight.  
  
“John,” he whispers, his voice broken and jagged, and John feels something large and fluttery expanding through his abdomen.  
  
“Christ, I’ve missed you,” John hears himself say. It sounds completely ridiculous, as they’ve seen each other nearly every day for the past fortnight, but Sherlock seems to understand, lips desperate and urgent against John’s once more.  
  
“I’m so sorry,” Sherlock mumbles into John’s mouth, and John is momentarily stunned. He pulls back, searching Sherlock’s face, but Sherlock looks away quickly, moving as if to draw back entirely and John grips his hips harder.  
  
“Sherlock, what—” John starts, but Sherlock shakes his head violently.  
  
“I should never have let you go,” Sherlock says softly. He turns back and John feels his breath catch in his chest. Sherlock’s eyes are dark and fathomless, pain and grief so deeply etched into his face, John feels like his heart is breaking.  
  
John leans in and presses his mouth to Sherlock’s throat, trying to convey all the grief and forgiveness and joy and longing into the touch of lips on skin. Sherlock shudders against him and then they’re kissing again; all restraint lost in the slide of teeth and tongues. John feels like he’s stifling and tries to pull his jumper off over his head, but Sherlock will not let go of his mouth and they end up tangled together in a net of spun wool.  
  
“Wait,” John whispers, managing to gather up enough coordination to pull back a fraction and work on the mess they’ve made.  
  
“Waited long enough,” Sherlock growls and John huffs a small laugh as the jumper finally frees itself from his arms and goes sailing across the sitting room. Sherlock’s tongue licks a line of fire up his throat and John feels like every sensation is magnified by months and years of fruitless longing. It feels like epiphany and nirvana and coming home and Christmas all at once, and he finds himself slightly overwhelmed at the onslaught of emotions.  
  
It suddenly feels like too much and he pulls back a fraction, holding Sherlock off with a hand at the center of his sternum.  
  
“What is it?” Sherlock pants, his lips stained a bruised pink and his eyes overbright with arousal.  
John forces himself to pause; every cell of his being screaming at him to take this man and claim him as his own, to finally have what he’s wanted for so long, but he knows it’s not fair to either of them to rush into something just because he’s emotionally compromised.  
  
Sherlock is watching him with all of his intense focus, and John feels the atmosphere shift as Sherlock reads the hesitation and worry on his face. Softly, Sherlock leans in and presses a small kiss to the very corner of John’s mouth.  
  
“It’s just,” John begins, but stops abruptly as two long, pale fingers press gently across his lips. Sherlock holds his gaze for a few more seconds before he lets his hand drop, pressing a chaste kiss to John’s forehead and sliding free of his lap in one graceful movement. John feels his chest tighten, but he takes Sherlock’s offered hand and allows himself to be hauled to his feet.  
  
“Let’s go to bed, John,” Sherlock murmurs. John feels his forehead wrinkle in confusion for a moment before he glances at his watch.  
  
“It’s barely half six!”  
  
Sherlock’s soft expression is entirely disarming and John feels his head begin to ache from so much emotional outpouring. “Bed, John,” Sherlock insists, tugging slightly on John’s hand and pulling him towards Sherlock’s bedroom. “You’re clearly exhausted and it will give me time to think.”  
  
Despite his protestations, John can feel the treacherous tug of sleep deprivation nipping at his heels. He trails Sherlock down the hall and into his room, following by example as Sherlock begins undoing his own buttons and shrugging out of his shirt. John watches him surreptitiously, feeling horribly and inexplicably out of his depth. This new version of Sherlock is disquieting and John isn’t entirely sure where he fits into this world anymore, much less in this bed. He suddenly remembers that his wife has just thrown him out after months of mistrust and confusion, and feels his head begin to throb in time with his pulse. The world shifts disconcertingly and John feels himself stumble as he undoes his trousers and lets them slide to the floor. He’s abruptly, overwhelmingly bone-weary of it all and moves towards the bed like he’s drugged.  
  
Sherlock’s crisp trousers slip to the floor with a rush of tailored fabric, and John’s breath catches in spite of himself. Sherlock is simply gorgeous: miles and miles of lithe, pale flesh uninterrupted by distracting swathes of fabric. He’s naked and proud and obviously completely comfortable in his own skin. In comparison, John feels like minced meat: ground down and roughened by experience and heartache, every stress and pressure seeming to crack him apart and leave him damaged. He wonders what on earth someone this fucking beautiful is doing with a used up, washed out old veteran with a history of PTSD and so much emotional baggage, he might as well invest in a trolley. He feels broken and cheap in the wake of Sherlock’s brilliance and wonders idly just how long Sherlock is going to tolerate him before he kicks him out too.  
  
“John.”  
  
John is snapped out of his self-pity by Sherlock’s rumbling baritone and he draws on all of his self-control to not just turn on his heel and march out of the flat. Sherlock deserves so much more than a broken toy soldier, but he swallows back all of his denial and doubt and forces himself to face the man. Sherlock is watching him carefully, all of his usual bravado deflated somewhat as he takes in John’s defeated appearance.  
  
“Whatever it is you’re thinking now, stop,” Sherlock says softly. “I cannot begin to understand your perspective on this entire situation, but I do know that whatever happens, I will always, _always_ endeavor to keep you safe and happy, John.”  
  
John can feel the humiliating swell of tears begin to burn at the corners of his eyes, but he bites them viciously back with a firm nod. He doesn’t need to fall to pieces again in front of Sherlock, but he doesn’t think he can stand much longer without collapsing under the sheer weight of consequence. He eyes the mattress warily, but Sherlock shimmies underneath the duvet in one smooth movement, leaving John to stand absurdly to the side in just his pants and socks like an idiot.  
  
Sherlock sighs and pats the bed with an overly exaggerated expression of saccharine invitation, and just like that the tension is broken. John snorts in amusement and slides between the sheets, luxuriating in the cool cotton against his overly heated skin. He toes his socks off under the covers and slides his bare feet across the mattress until he can tuck his cold toes under Sherlock’s calves. Sherlock huffs in amusement, but nudges obligingly over, gathering John close and pressing a lingering kiss to the top of his head.  
  
The dam breaks and John curls himself forward, stiff arms winding around Sherlock’s torso until he’s pressed as close as he can be to the reassuring warmth of Sherlock’s lean body. He listens to the steady, rhythmic thud of Sherlock’s pulse beneath his ear and doesn’t wonder what Mary is doing right now.  
  
“Thank you,” John eventually whispers, face pressed hard into the firm swell of one lean pectoral. Sherlock’s arm tightens slightly around his back and John feels the tight knot of grief loosen a little in his chest.  
  
“Rest, John.”  
  
   
John wakes several hours later to the soft sensation of lips pressing delicately against his spine. Warmth blossoms through his chest and he relaxes backwards into Sherlock’s embrace, smiling as Sherlock’s curious fingers crawl slowly down his stomach towards his pants. He shouldn’t encourage this and knows it will only lead to more confusion and guilt in the morning, but Sherlock is warm and solid behind him, the entire room cloaked in the hazy light of dusk, and John is honestly sick of denying his own desires. He sighs and arches backwards, feeling the thick bulge of Sherlock’s cock rub tantalizingly against the swell of his arse and revelling in the low, rumbling groan the action produces.  
  
“John,” Sherlock whispers, full lips catching against the nape of his neck, and John cannot help the way his body rolls into Sherlock’s unconscious thrusts. Sherlock makes a choked noise, but stills completely behind him and John lets loose a soft whine of protest.  
  
“We shouldn’t,” Sherlock murmurs, his fingers hesitating just beneath the elastic band of John’s pants.  
  
“I don’t care,” John mumbles back, rocking his hips against Sherlock’s groin and causing the man to buck unintentionally forward.  
  
“Yes, you do,” Sherlock says, low and resigned, and John _hates_ the way it makes his chest ache.  
  
“Please,” he whispers.  
  
“It’ll make everything worse.”  
  
“I know,” John says, because it’s true. He doesn’t want to think about Mary. He doesn’t want to acknowledge that he’s made a terrible mistake, that thinking he could live a life without this—without _Sherlock_ — is completely deplorable. He doesn’t want to remind himself that his life is falling apart, that he’ll never love anyone as much as he loves Sherlock, but all rational thought is slipping slowly through the cracks as Sherlock’s deft fingers slide beneath the fabric of his pants and brush along the trail of hair that leads to the base of his now straining cock.  
  
“Sherlock,” John breathes, afraid to move lest he shatter this intense moment between them. Something in his tone seems to goad Sherlock on because suddenly there are warm lips sucking bruises across the top of his spine; strong, tapered fingers wrapping firmly around his shaft and John moans into the stillness, completely unable to keep silent as Sherlock’s hand begins a steady stroking rhythm.  
  
“God, John,” Sherlock groans into his skin, his own erection hard and pulsing against the curve of John’s arse. John can feel the moments stretching between them, Sherlock’s body rocking against him almost of its own volition, and John suddenly wants it more than anything: the feeling of Sherlock on him and _inside_ him, connected to him so irrevocably nobody will ever replace him in John’s estimation.  
  
“I want it,” John mumbles, his face flushing at his own embarrassing admission. Sherlock stills behind him again, though his hand keeps up the torturously slow rhythm. John whines a little and pushes his hips back into the cradle of Sherlock’s groin, rubbing shamelessly against Sherlock’s cock and oddly pleased when he feels a damp patch begin to form at the back of his pants.  
  
“John, I…” Sherlock trails off, swallowing audibly. “I’ve never—”  
  
“I know.” The gravity of the moment seems to hang suspended between them for one solid heartbeat before Sherlock is moving, shuffling backwards across the mattress and pulling on John’s shoulder. John rolls onto his back willingly, blinking up into Sherlock’s face and registering the soft hesitation etched into his sharp features. Sherlock looks visibly nervous, which John finds almost unbearably endearing. He reaches up to trail his fingers along the back of Sherlock’s neck, rubbing the pad of his thumb across an overly pronounced cheekbone.  
  
Sherlock seems to come to a decision, because he sinks forward and presses his mouth to John’s, apparently uncaring about the sour taste of sleep or the fact that their stubble is rubbing together abrasively. John leans into the kiss, firmly ignoring the warning bells in the back of his brain that are trying to remind him that this is probably the worst decision he could be making right now. It’s not fair to either of them, shaky as John’s sanity is at the moment, but Sherlock is warm and solid; the only sturdy rock in the tempest of John’s life, and he clings desperately to him like a drowning man.  
  
He slips his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth and surges up, hands scrabbling across acres of pale skin and sinewy muscle, trying to pull Sherlock in _closer_ , unable to get enough contact. Sherlock shudders in his arms, but rolls his full weight on top of John, pressing his hips forward and dragging his mouth along the edge of John’s jaw.  
  
“Christ, John,” Sherlock rasps, his knees sliding naturally into the space between John’s thighs. John kicks the remaining blankets off and wraps his legs around Sherlock’s narrow waist, drawing their groins together further and revelling in Sherlock’s choked-off gasp. Sherlock’s skin is soft and warm, and John runs his fingers curiously over the telltale raised welts of vicious scars. He pulls back, a question hovering just behind his teeth, but Sherlock’s expression darkens instantly and John subsides. They can discuss it later, John thinks, and tips his head back as Sherlock’s lips trail fire down his carotid artery. It feels incredible, and John knows that no matter what happens in the rest of his life, he will never regret this.  
  
“I want you to fuck me,” John murmurs into Sherlock’s ear, feeling the tension vibrate between them with each roll of his hips.  
  
“ _Yes_ ,” Sherlock growls and his hips seem to grind forward without conscious effort. It’s possessive and fierce and probably the most arousing thing John’s ever heard.  
  
“Oh,” John breathes, and then Sherlock is moving, licking and kissing his way down John’s bare torso, eyes bright and mischievous as he nibbles at the skin along John’s ribs. John gasps in ticklish delight and tries to throw him off, but Sherlock just smirks and sucks a bruise into the dip of his hipbone.  
  
“I want to _consume_ you,” Sherlock rumbles, the sound shooting straight through to the base of John’s spine.  
  
“Fuck, yes,” John pants. He’s never felt this level of desperation with a lover before-- not even in Afghanistan where every ticking second might be the last. John’s hips cant up of their own accord and Sherlock’s answering grin is sharp and predatory. He nuzzles his face into the crease of John’s groin, inhaling deeply and John feels a momentary flash of panic, irrationally concerned about his own cleanliness, but Sherlock just grunts and grips his thighs tightly, holding him in place as he drinks in his fill. It’s base and almost vulgar, but John feels his arousal spike sharply at the instinct, his body going soft and pliant in Sherlock’s hands.  
  
John feels the humidity of Sherlock’s open mouth, hot and intense through the thin cotton of his pants. Sherlock’s eyes flick up to his and John is momentarily staggered by the sheer _want_ clouding his mercurial irises. He looks utterly wild: hair a riot of dark curls, lips kiss-swollen and wet, cheeks flushed, pupils dilated to ridiculous proportions.  
  
“John,” Sherlock says softly, and John realizes Sherlock’s fingers are hovering, unmoving just above the waistband of his briefs.  
  
“Yes,” John breathes and lifts his hips to help. Sherlock slides his long fingers beneath the elastic and tugs them down slowly, as though he’s unwrapping the greatest mystery ever known. John feels embarrassment flare unexpectedly in the pit of his stomach. It’s ridiculous and completely irrational, seeing as he’d had his cock all the way in the back of Sherlock’s throat before, but something about this time feels different. They’re both older now; burdened by the weight of decision and months-- _years_ \-- of regret.  
  
John feels completely undone. Sherlock’s tongue snakes out to lick a clean line from the base of his bollocks right up over his hip and John feels his cheeks heat at the purring groan that spills from those plush lips.  
  
“You taste incredible,” Sherlock breathes, and John feels his face darken with embarrassed arousal. Sherlock’s fingers dig into his thighs and suddenly he’s pressing up and out, John’s body folding and contorting to accommodate the unexpected stretch.  
  
“Sherlock,” John gasps, hesitation and mild trepidation causing his voice to waver. “What—” But then there is a breath of warm air and Sherlock’s mouth is suddenly _there_ , tongue flicking out to trail a long, wet line right up over the clenched skin of John’s hole and John feels his entire body jerk in surprise.  
  
“Oh _fuck_ ,” John groans. It’s filthy and obscene, and John feels his chest give a great heave of pressure as he tries to decide if he should pull away or push in further, but then Sherlock’s tongue curls upwards again and John feels himself opening, muscles stretching around the slick intrusion and he nearly loses himself completely. Sherlock hums and John can feel the vibrations shoot straight through to his core, deep and resonant and achingly intimate.  
  
By the time Sherlock’s tongue is thrusting steadily inside him, John’s muscles have completely deteriorated into an ungainly pile against the sheets; his pulse beating so fitfully through his skull, he’s honestly surprised he can hear anything else at all over the cacophony. He’s hovering on the edge of blissful oblivion, his body at once taut as a bowstring and utterly boneless with overwhelming pleasure. Sherlock makes another of those throaty, rumbling noises and pulls back with a final lick, his face drenched in sweat and saliva. He looks completely debauched and John has to clamp firmly down on the needy whine that threatens up the back of his throat.  
  
Sherlock smirks slowly and bends forward to run his nose up the underside of John’s bollocks, inhaling deeply and closing his eyes in apparent contentment. John feels the flush rise in color across his cheeks and wonders briefly if his face will forever be stained with blood; a permanent blush suffusing his skin and broadcasting to the world at large just how shattered he is by Sherlock’s ministrations.  
  
“There’s slick in the drawer,” Sherlock purrs into his thigh and it takes an embarrassing amount of time for John’s brain to register the words. He nods with a jerk and flails uncoordinated limbs towards the bedside table, nearly knocking the lamp to the floor in his clumsy haste. Sherlock chuckles into his hipbone and John loses himself briefly in the feel of those plush lips caressing gently across his skin, the warm huff of breath skittering across his sweat-slicked thigh.  
  
“Slick, John,” Sherlock says, and John can hear the amusement in his tone. With herculean effort, John heaves himself towards the table and manages to get the drawer open, his numb fingers closing around the cool plastic bottle just as Sherlock’s mouth closes around the head of his cock.  
  
“Christ,” John gasps and promptly drops the bottle. Sherlock’s lips stretch around his shaft in an unmistakable smirk, but then he sucks hard, cheeks hollowing and tongue rubbing relentlessly against John’s frenulum and John completely forgets what it is he’s meant to be doing. He digs his heels into the mattress and thrusts his hips up, pushing himself harder into Sherlock’s throat and glorying in the feeling for one breathless moment before Sherlock pulls off with an undignified slurp.  
  
“ _Slick_ , John,” he says again, his long fingers curling around John’s cock and stroking lightly. “I will be inside you when you come.”  
  
“Oh god.” John shudders and reaches back into the drawer, practically dropping the bottle again in his haste. He manages to get it to Sherlock without further incident, his entire body shivering with fine tremors as arousal and anticipation curl through his abdomen. Sherlock’s lips stretch into a wicked grin and he lets go of John’s cock briefly to drizzle some of the clear fluid onto his fingertips, sitting back on his heels and surveying John like prey. John feels his gaze like a physical caress and lets his legs fall open a little bit further, grinning to himself as Sherlock’s eyes seem to darken at the motion.  
  
Sherlock seems to hesitate for a moment before he leans in again, plush lips brushing against the inside of John’s knee as he creates a space for himself between John’s spread thighs. John can feel the heat from his body spreading all the way up through his bones, muscles stuttering and clenching in anticipation, but Sherlock pauses again, his fingers rubbing small circles into the skin of John’s perineum.  
  
“Is this what you want, John?” Sherlock asks in a low tone, and isn’t _that_ a loaded question. John takes a deep breath, trying to clear the fog of arousal and pheromones clogging up his thought process.  
He gazes at Sherlock, poised and ready, and thinks back on all those wasted months of hopeless yearning; of waking in the morning to the harsh clench of emptiness radiating through his chest. He recalls sleepless nights of fitful wanking, gasping through the wanting and shameful tears as he tried to reconcile himself to the idea that he’d never have Sherlock in this way. He remembers wishing furtively for one more day— one more _hour—_ if only to feel Sherlock against him just one time. He thinks of Mary and their doomed relationship, of the way she’d taunted him and goaded him with the promise of this very thing and he feels the small swell of guilt melt away. He looks up into Sherlock’s waiting face and smiles, feeling the tight fist of anxiety meld seamlessly into undisguised love.  
  
“Yes,” he says simply and lets his head fall back with a low groan as one of Sherlock’s long fingers pushes immediately into him, the mild discomfort overridden entirely by a deep sense of belonging.  
  
It seems to be all the confirmation Sherlock needs, because he’s suddenly crawling up John’s body, dragging lips and teeth over every inch of John’s skin he encounters; marking and claiming him in the basest of ways as he takes John apart one finger at a time. John feels his body give over, each gentle push of Sherlock’s fingers opening him and soothing him in equal measure.  
  
 _This_ is what he’s been missing all these years: this heavy sense of connection, of deep-seated affection and overwhelming _rightness_. Sherlock hums into his skin; a deep, sonorous groan that seems to sink right through John’s chest and into his ribs, making his entire body throb with sensation. He can feel the stretch of two fingers as Sherlock enters him again, the brief flare of pain momentary as his insides twist in unmitigated pleasure. _Christ_ , he didn’t expect it to feel this good.  
  
“ _God_ , John,” Sherlock moans against his neck and John becomes abruptly aware of Sherlock’s erection digging painfully into his hipbone. He’s hard and leaking and somehow the idea that Sherlock is just as wrecked as he is makes something twist in John’s chest. He feels absurdly powerful: the only person to reduce the great Sherlock Holmes into a needy mess of humanity, and the thought has him curling his back up, trying to get more of Sherlock inside of him— trying to imprint his very fingerprints into his body.  
  
“Please,” John whispers, and Sherlock bends forward to capture his lips in a kiss so full of emotion, John can feel his toes curl against the mattress. It’s bare and raw and John knows nothing in his life will ever compare to this moment. Sherlock’s breath seems to rush out in a muffled sob and he tilts his fingers just right, grazing delicately across John’s prostate, and the world seems to implode into vivid shards of light and color.  
  
“Oh _Christ_ ,” John groans, the urgency in his tone suddenly crisp and clear. His arousal seems to have jumped from a slow burn to incendiary in the space of a heartbeat and now it feels as though his very nerves are on fire.  
  
“John,” Sherlock pants into his mouth, desperate and needy and John simply writhes into the bed. He blinks his eyes open, unaware of when he’d closed them, to find Sherlock gazing down at him with a positively primal expression; entirely focused on the way John is moving beneath him. John feels the scrutiny like a brand, hot and searing and oddly comforting in its intensity.  
  
“I’m ready,” John says softly, smiling at Sherlock’s look of utter bewilderment. Sherlock twists his wrist once more and John cannot help the way his body bows forward, sensation and want chasing up his spine with every gentle push of Sherlock’s knuckles against his arse. Sherlock slowly eases his fingers out and John is momentarily left achingly empty, his entire body straining forward to impale himself again. He feels open and vulnerable, but completely trusting as Sherlock upends the lubricant over his palm, some of the viscous fluid dripping down his wrist in a way that absolutely shouldn’t be appealing, but definitely is.  
  
His gaze travels up John’s bare skin and John feels an absurd twinge of self-consciousness start at the scrutiny, but the moment their eyes meet, he sees nothing but admiration and shockingly intimate wonder reflected in Sherlock’s pale eyes. John’s gut gives a lurch when he sees Sherlock’s eyes visibly darken, his large hand closing around his erection and smoothing the lubricant over the stiff flesh in agonizingly slow tugs. His dark eyelashes flutter at the contact and John feels saliva gather beneath his tongue, his mouth literally watering at the incredible sight before him.  
  
“Sherlock,” he breathes, his voice utterly wrecked and desperate. Sherlock’s mouth stretches into a feral grin and he bends forward, nudging John’s knees wide with his thighs and insinuating himself firmly between John’s legs. His hips roll in a lazy circle and John feels the sensation zing all the way up his spine, pleasure and alacrity chasing through his skin and causing gooseflesh to pebble all along his arms and shoulders.  
  
“Say it again,” Sherlock purrs into the skin below John’s ear. John shivers and arches into the touch, need clawing at his insides and making him shake with unrestrained desire.  
  
“Sherlock,” John murmurs again, giving into the urge and burying his fingers into the tangle of dark curls below his chin. He feels Sherlock shudder against him and the head of his cock bumps heavily against his perineum, sliding along the sweaty, slick crease there until it catches on the loosened muscle of John’s anus.  
  
Sherlock pulls back enough to capture John’s lips in a searing kiss just as he shifts fractionally forward and the sheer weight of him has John’s body twisting; curling forward and wrapping around, demanding more contact. Sherlock rolls his hips again and he’s suddenly there: thick and hard and hot as fire as he pushes gently forward, parting John’s muscles with a slow sensuality that has John gasping and shuddering with sensation. Sherlock sinks into him in one glorious slide of delicious friction, and John feels his restraint shatter completely. He can feel his muscles relaxing, his body opening and pulsing around the thick intrusion as Sherlock’s cock seems to sear like brand straight through to his spine.  
  
They pause there for a moment, Sherlock held so deeply within John’s body he can’t be certain where he ends and Sherlock begins. It feels incredible; the initial resistance giving way to an overwhelmingly pleasurable sense of finality. This is more than sex, more than simple feeling; it’s _annihilation_ and John feels his control splintering into fragments of sense and inevitability. They’ve been building towards this for years: a slow dance of self-deprecation and unresolved tension and John knows that nothing will ever feel as brilliant and right as this moment with this man.  
  
Sherlock’s entire body seems to shudder and then he’s pulling back, the slick drag of his cock thrumming straight through John’s body and sending all of his nerves alight with sensation.  
  
“John,” Sherlock groans, deep and melodious and John feels all the air in his lungs expelled on a great sigh, feeling as though every weight on his consciousness seeps out of him with the exhalation. Sherlock shifts within him and John arches into the motion, chasing Sherlock’s hips with his own as they establish a rhythm, the give-take of their movements matched only with the twin groans of relief at finally having this.  
  
John’s fingers twine around sinewy biceps, thrashing against the sheets as Sherlock’s thrusts become rough and nearly violent. Sherlock’s eyes are suspiciously bright when he blinks them open; a fathomless gaze that seems to tug at something hot and dangerous in John’s chest, and John feels his own emotions rising to match, taking all of the roiling decision and unendurable guilt and banishing it away with every satisfyingly loud smack of the headboard into the wall.  
  
John can feel himself tightening, all of his muscles seeming to coil in on themselves as his orgasm looms closer. Sherlock makes a strangled noise and throws his head back, tendons straining all along his elegant neck. John slides slick palms up Sherlock’s back, digging blunt fingernails into pale skin and feeling as the muscles tighten and clench with each frantic movement; the two of them so closely entwined it feels like they’ve fused together somehow. It’s glorious and terrifying, and John feels as though his heart is going to simply shatter around the sheer weight of his love.  
  
“God, John,” Sherlock pants, long eyelashes sweeping open to pin John with a loaded gaze. John feels it like a shock wave, and he cannot help but arch upward to claim that sinful mouth in a heated kiss. Sherlock moans against his tongue and it’s all too much and not nearly enough.  
  
“Wanted this, wanted _you_. Missed you— _fuck_ , so much,” John whimpers as Sherlock’s movements take on a primal quality; each thrust punctuated with twin grunts of erotic pleasure. John’s cock is trapped between their bellies, every movement dragging the slick head of it across Sherlock’s lightly furred abdomen. John is so close he can _taste_ it: bright and sharp and electric in its clarity.  
  
“ _Mine_ ,” Sherlock growls. He leans forward and runs his tongue up along the side of John’s neck, biting down hard on the underside of his jaw and it’s finally enough.  
  
John comes with a gasp and a groan, his entire body seeming to clench and expand at the same time; neurons firing as pleasure overtakes him. He can feel his ejaculate smearing between them; pulse after pulse of sticky, slick semen spreading hotly along Sherlock’s skin— marking and claiming Sherlock as his own. It feels like dying and being reborn, like pain and inevitability, like coming alive and shattering apart all at once and John is nearly overwhelmed.  
  
Sherlock fucks him through it, hips stuttering a little as John’s body clenches down tightly around him. He groans and licks at the fresh bite mark on John’s throat, soothing and possessive and desperate. John whines a little as his body teeters dangerously into overstimulation, but Sherlock seems like he’s _right there_ , holding back by sheer force of will.  
  
“John,” Sherlock gasps between clenched teeth, and he sounds so agonized, so fierce that John cannot help but reach forward with trembling arms and draw him down, mashing their lips together in a kiss that’s more teeth than tongues. Sherlock pushes into him harder, his hips taking on a brutality that has John wincing a little, but he intentionally tightens down, squeezing spent muscles around the slick intrusion of Sherlock’s cock, and Sherlock cries out roughly.  
  
“Come on,” John urges. “Let me have this. Let it go.”  
  
John watches with a deep sense of wonder as Sherlock’s entire face flushes, mercurial eyes shut tight, sweaty curls bouncing against his temples, limbs trembling as pleasure courses through him. Sherlock keens and John can actually feel his cock thicken a little, thrusts becoming painfully hard twice more before he stills completely; head thrown back and teeth clenched. He looks incredible and John feels a little part of himself is lost forever to the beautiful sight of Sherlock Holmes in the throes of orgasm.  
  
Sherlock slows eventually, hips feebly pumping a few more times until he collapses, shaking, onto one forearm. John pulls him the rest of the way down, taking his weight easily and pressing his lips along Sherlock’s damp hairline. He holds him there: sweaty and trembling with aftershocks until their pulses slow to normal and the air becomes uncomfortably cool. John knows Sherlock is processing; taking each new sensation and categorizing and storing them for later examination. For now, John is perfectly content to lay here, sated and finally, _finally_ happy.  
  
“Is it always like that?” Sherlock asks eventually, his voice low and utterly ruined, long fingers tracing nonsense patterns across John’s sticky abdomen.  
  
John huffs out a small laugh, tangling his fingers into the back of Sherlock’s curls and unable to stop himself from pulling Sherlock in closer. “No,” he answers truthfully.  
  
“Hmm,” Sherlock murmurs, pressing a small kiss into the skin over John’s heart. John feels as though his entire chest swells with affection, ribs straining as they try to contain his joy. He gently runs his hand down Sherlock’s jaw, tipping his face up and meeting him halfway for a kiss full of so much emotion, John feels his toes curl against the mattress. It feels like heartache and longing, like love and tenderness, like promise and forgiveness and John feels like he’s falling.  
  
They’re broken out of their peaceful reverie by the sharp trill of John’s mobile. John groans and winces slightly as Sherlock’s soft cock slips out of him with an undignified rush of come and lube. Sherlock smirks at him for a second before reaching for the phone with one long arm, snagging it from the bedside table and glaring at it before his face falls completely blank. John’s brow furrows as he regards Sherlock warily.  
  
“What is it?”  
  
“It’s Mary,” Sherlock replies, and John feels like he’s been punched. Irrational anger and painful spite war disconcertingly in his gut for a moment before he takes the still-ringing phone from Sherlock’s motionless hand.  
  
He stares at the flashing screen until it stops ringing and lets out the breath that had been caught in his chest. Sherlock shifts forward, the sheet slipping tantalizingly down to his thighs, and John feels all the anger dissipate into a sudden, overwhelming flash of lust. It’s unexpected this soon after orgasm, but John finds himself unable to deny his feelings after they’ve been so long ignored. He feels like a teenager again in his desire for this man and he leans forward to lick a long line up that pale, elegant neck, pleased when Sherlock lets loose a low, rumbling growl.  
  
Sherlock’s mobile starts ringing insistently, and they both break apart with an irritated huff. John snatches it off the table and presses the call button, even as Sherlock reaches forward to take it from him.  
  
“What do you want, Mary?” John growls.  
  
“Oh John, thank _god_ ,” Mary says in a rush, and she sounds frantic.  
  
“What’s the matter? What is it?”  
  
“It’s Emma— she’s _gone!_ ”  
  
John stares blankly at the wall for several seconds before a rush of rage seems to seep up from his very bones.  
  
“Mary, I swear to god, if this is some sort of sick joke to get me to come back—”  
  
“Jesus, John, no!” Mary sounds like she’s on the verge of tears, and that thought alone is enough to sober John entirely. “I turned my back for two seconds-- she was with Janine! I thought she’d be alright— but she’s gone and Janine is out cold and I don’t know what else to do!”  
  
John hears the words as though through water, his entire body suddenly numb and cold. Emma is gone. He’s vaguely aware of Sherlock reaching forward to pry the mobile out of his hands, of time ticking endlessly by while somewhere out there his daughter has been taken, but he feels nothing but an bottomless, aching void.  
  
“Mary, calm down. I need you to listen to me very carefully,” Sherlock is saying somewhere behind him. “Have you phoned emergency services? Good. Stay exactly where you are and make sure Janine keeps breathing. Don’t let them move anything until we get there, understood?”  
  
John feels like his very blood has slowed, his limbs useless and heavy at his sides. He recalls suddenly that this is what shock feels like and tries to keep himself cool and rational as his body cycles through the shakes and apnea. Emma is _gone_. He waits patiently for the familiar rush of adrenaline, but Sherlock is suddenly before him; all wild eyes and harsh angles and John feels himself wince as his shoulders are taken in a vice-like grip.  
  
“John, I need you to focus,” Sherlock says, but his voice sounds odd, as though he’s trying to speak through a haze of static. _Emma is gone_.  
  
“ _John_ ,” Sherlock says again, accompanied by a harsh slap across his cheek. It’s a few seconds before the blow registers, but then there is a sharp blossom of pain and John’s nerves are alive again and he’s abruptly aware that he’s sucking in great, heaving breaths that wrack his entire body. He hears a low hum of distress and is startled to realize it’s coming from him.  
  
“Sherlock,” John chokes out, panic and confusion clouding his vision for one horrifying moment.  
  
“John. Get dressed. It’s going to be alright.”  
  
There are warm fingers guiding him urgently into standing and then his arms are suddenly full of clothing; denims and a thick jumper and socks and pants, and John stares uncomprehending at them for a full minute before Sherlock huffs next to him and begins unfolding the clothing and coaxing him into it. He feels the reassuring slide of cold metal at the back of his denims and dimly registers Sherlock placing his Sig at the small of his back. There’s a low buzz ringing through John’s ears. He’s sure he’s meant to be doing something, but he can’t seem to focus on anything but the burning, churning fear harbored deep within his gut.  
  
 _Emma is gone_.  
  
John blinks and they’re in a taxi, Sherlock fidgeting nervously on the seat next to him, looking halfway between excited and nauseous. John blinks again and they’re speeding through the suburbs; rushing along dual carriageways and thick, angry swathes of sky. He blinks again and they’re standing at the foot of Mary’s staircase, Sherlock urging him forward with a firm hand at the small of his back.  
  
John takes a deep breath and feels his head clear for the first time in what feels like hours. Sherlock turns to look at him, his face deathly pale in the soft glow of the hallway lamps and John nods once in acknowledgement.  
  
The police are already there, along with a team of paramedics who seem to be doing more harm than good. Janine is awake again, and stoutly refusing to be moved going by the way she’s resisting any help at all. Mary is sitting in a kitchen chair with a violently orange blanket draped around her shoulders, looking about as blank as John feels.  
  
“Mary,” Sherlock says softly, moving forward with more caution than John would ever give him credit for. “What happened?”  
  
“I’ll tell you what happened,” Janine shouts from the other side of the room. “That motherfucker hit me with a goddamned lamp and nearly took my head off. I could have died! Aren’t concussions progressive?”  
  
“Did you see his face?” Sherlock demands sharply, and Janine shakes her head ruefully, deftly dodging a paramedic and coming to join them in the kitchen.  
  
John looks to Mary, who seems to be watching the whole scene unfold from a long way away. She looks so small and fragile there, and John feels a pang of sympathy echo through his ribs.  
  
“Who would do this?” he asks, stepping closer to Mary and allowing the rest of the room to fall away. Mary’s turns towards him, her eyes red rimmed and glossy, and John feels like he’s going to vomit.  
  
“I—” Mary starts, her voice faltering for a moment before she clears it and tries again. “I don’t know. Not for sure, anyway.” Her eyes dart towards Sherlock and John follows her gaze. Sherlock is watching Janine carefully as one persistent paramedic pushes her none-too-gently into a chair and swabs at the cut on her forehead, and John feels an absurd curl of jealousy twist deep in his abdomen.  
  
“You say he struck you from behind?” Sherlock asks, and John can tell there’s something going on beyond the obvious.  
  
“No,” Janine huffs and winces as the same paramedic wraps a piece of gauze over the wound. “I said he hit me with a lamp. It was too quick to see who he was though. Big guy, rough features. Swung at me and then grabbed Emma as I fell. It was almost like a dance.”  
  
Sherlock’s eyes narrow a bit, but he dismisses the rest of her protesting with a wave of his hand. “Mary,” he calls, still keeping his eyes fixed on Janine. “Was Magnussen the only one who knew your true identity?”  
  
One of the police officers shifts uncomfortably, but Sherlock silences him with a sharp glare. Mary’s attention snaps back into focus immediately and John feels thrown again by her ability to be two completely different people at once. “Alive? I thought so,” Mary answers coolly. “Although I am well aware your brother has been digging for information since last October.”  
  
Sherlock’s eyes flash dangerously, but he nods in dismissal, offering one gloved hand to Janine, who takes it with a sardonic smile and allows herself to be hauled up. John watches with a sick sense of disconnect as Janine stumbles a little and sways into Sherlock, who hastily slides a reassuring arm around her waist. She blinks up at him in mild surprise before a faint smile curls her lips. They look so comfortable together despite their rather colorful past and John feels his gut clench as a new wave of hot jealousy surges forward around the acidic taste of fear.  
  
Sherlock eyes Janine warily for a moment before apparently deciding she can stand for herself and moving them both towards the kitchen.  He deposits her in the chair next to Mary with a gentle pat to the shoulder and John fights the hysterical urge to laugh. Sherlock looks so calm and collected, and John feels entirely frazzled in comparison. His head aches with the flow of too much emotion; his thoughts scattered and drenched in panic as he tries to navigate through the unfamiliar mess of his feelings.  
  
“Mary,” Sherlock says again, and John can suddenly feel the weight of her accusing gaze as it sweeps between himself and Sherlock. Mary’s jaw clenches once, but she is completely steady again as she looks towards Sherlock.  
  
“I don’t know, Sherlock. I told you, I went to the kitchen to make some tea. Janine had Emma in the sitting room and everything was fine until I heard the front door bang open. I rushed to check, but the intruder was already gone and Janine was bleeding on the floor. I don’t—” her voice falters for a moment before she takes a shaky breath, eyes closing tightly once before she continues on, her voice surprisingly strong. “I don’t know who would do this. Everything was supposed to be safe now that Charles is dead.”  
  
John feels a stab of discomfort slice through his gut at Mary’s unconscious familiarity. He wonders idly just how well she’d known Magnussen, but it makes his stomach clench again uncomfortably and he chooses to let it slide for the moment. There are more pressing issues. Sherlock has templed his fingers beneath his lips, eyes gazing unfocused into the middle distance, but the look he turns to Mary is all calculated brilliance and unguarded curiosity.  
  
“And why did you call Janine here in the first place?”  
  
All three of them blink at him, dumbfounded for a moment and John wonders why on earth Sherlock is asking pointless questions when his daughter is _missing_ for christ’s sake.  
  
“Emotional support,” Mary says flatly with a tight glare towards John.  
  
“It just seems an odd choice,” Sherlock continues, pacing neatly towards the sitting room and back, his laser-beam focus sweeping in all the details of the rooms as he passes. “Janine has recently purchased a house in Sussex, rather far away for a casual visit on a random weekday.”  
  
“She’s my best friend,” Mary grinds out, and John is startled by the vehemence inher tone. “Not that you would know anything about emotional entanglements such as those. You’re only interested in stealing other people’s husbands.”  
  
“Mary!” John snaps, just as Janine says the same in a hushed, shocked tone. Sherlock’s jaw clenches briefly, but his face is an inscrutable mask of controlled indifference.  
  
“Tell me about James Moriarty,” Sherlock says, the intensity of his tone belying his calm demeanor. Mary pales visibly, but she holds his gaze with an air of defiant dignity.  
  
“Jim Moriarty is dead.” Mary’s eyes are completely cold and flat as she says it, as though every shred of her humanity has been stripped violently away, leaving an icy shell of the woman John once knew.  
John feels the dizzying lightheadedness that accompanies embarrassing fainting spells. He can taste the bile rising up the back of his throat and swallows desperately against the wave of nausea threatening to overtake him.  
  
“But you knew him before, did you not?” Sherlock presses, all of his considerable focus unwavering as he takes in Mary’s rigid stance. She doesn’t say a word, but her silence speaks volumes. John feels an icy thrill of terror chase its way up his spine and tries desperately not to physically shudder at the thought.  
  
“Wait, wait,” Janine interjects, and she sounds about as shaky as John feels. “Jim Moriarty? That nutter that broke into the prison and the bank a few years back? I thought he was confirmed dead right after Sherlock here.”  
  
“Oh, Moriarty himself is dead,” Sherlock intones casually, as though they’re not discussing his greatest adversary and the dangerous madness that surrounded him. “The question now is, who is acting in his stead.”  
  
Mary’s mobile rings suddenly from the table, the jarringly jaunty tune of _Staying Alive_ bursting through the air like a cannon blast. John feels his breath catch and he glances towards Sherlock, who has paused absurdly mid-step; still and silent as a statue. His eyes are wide and shocked, his mouth open around a silent _oh_ , and John feels real fear curl unpleasantly up his spine. Mary makes an involuntary noise and John’s focus hones in on her instead. She’s staring at the phone in absolute horror, her cold demeanor wiped blankly away by the force of her shock. She reaches for the mobile with a shaking hand, but Janine grasps her wrist tightly before she can touch it, her own face pale and sickly with fear. The ringtone ends abruptly and the absence of sound feels like the concussion of a blast. Nobody moves for a moment, and then Sherlock strides forward, all sharp urgency and jerky movements and John feels dread sink through to his very toes. Just before Sherlock can touch the mobile, there is a single clear beep and they all stop to stare down at where it rests innocently on the table. Silence rings after with the thickness of a vacuum as they all hold their breath collectively.  
  
“One pip,” John says shakily and he sinks back down into the abandoned chair as his knees refuse to hold him any longer.  
  
“Exquisite,” Sherlock breathes, and for one horrible second, his face lights up with the remembered fervor of the chase. John feels anger flare harsh and violent through his chest and he stands so quickly his chair flies to the ground with a splintering crash.  
  
“God damn it, Sherlock, this is _my daughter_ we’re looking for!” John shouts. “I’m in no mood for your fucking theatrics.”  
  
Sherlock recoils as though he’s been slapped and his enthralled expression breaks for a split second before the hard mask of indifference snaps back into place.  John wants to apologize immediately, to fix the horrible fraction of honest _hurt_ he’d seen momentarily, but the urgency of the problem is creeping up around them like a fog. Mary lets loose a shaky breath, but she straightens and picks up her mobile with a steady hand.  
  
John watches in growing fear as she swipes open the picture message and blinks down at it blankly for a few seconds before her brow furrows in confusion. Sherlock is beside her in an instant, plucking the phone cleanly out of her hand and enlarging the photo with practiced ease. His eyes dart so quickly across the picture, it appears as though they’re blurred and John feels the ache in his temples intensify.  
  
“It’s a ransom note,” Sherlock says eventually after ten solid seconds of increasing tension.  
  
“What do they want?” Janine whispers softly.  
  
“Me.” Mary’s voice is small and hushed.  
  
“Sherlock,” John starts, panic and confusion clouding his vision into a dull, throbbing red. “What the _fuck_ is going on.”  
  
“I need to get to Bart’s,” Sherlock says, turning to Mary and Janine with a look of grim determination. “I am well aware that I am not your favorite person at the moment. Either of you,” he adds with a small nod towards Janine, “That being said, I urge you to listen to what I have to say and try not to act like complete morons for once.” John hisses in a quick breath, and Janine looks mildly offended for a moment, but Mary just nods once in quiet acceptance. “You are to remain here at all times until you hear word directly from either myself or John. Do not trust _anyone_ else. Have I made myself clear?”  
  
Janine looks shell shocked and alarmed, but Mary nods again and grasps her hand tightly. Janine winces, but nods as well, her mouth set in a firm line. Sherlock smiles briefly and turns towards the kitchen doorway, finally addressing the hovering police. John is startled to realize he’d almost completely forgotten about their audience in the wake of fear and horror, but he moves sharply to stand at Sherlock’s side; feeling his body unconsciously shift over into the nebulous calm that precedes danger and gunfire.  
  
“You,” Sherlock snaps towards the nearest police officer. “Get DCI Lestrade from Scotland Yard on the phone and tell him to follow the GPS signal from John Watson’s mobile. You,” he indicates a timid-looking paramedic. “Make sure Mrs Watson and Ms O’Connell are treated for shock. Everyone else, get out.”  
  
There is a murmured protest and one ridiculous police officer has the audacity to hold his ground, glaring at Sherlock with an overly inflated sense of self-importance, and John can feel himself bristling immediately in defense.  
  
“Mr Holmes, honestly,” the man drawls in a supercilious tone. “We all know who you are and what you’ve done in the past. We were called here by a distressed woman with a missing person’s claim for her newborn daughter. What makes you think we’re going to just leave without any kind of resolution? For all we know, you’re the one that took the girl.”  
  
John isn’t even aware that he’s moving until he has the man backed firmly up against the faded wallpaper, untouched, but cowed nonetheless. “Now you listen here,” he says, his tone dangerously calm. “If you know who he is, you know who _I_ am and you should know by now that it is _my_ daughter who has been kidnapped.” John pushes a little further into his personal space and watches in grim satisfaction as the man winces. “I am a very patient man, constable, but there is limited time and I am unwilling to listen to stupidity and malice for the sake of prejudice. I wouldn’t recommend testing my resolve here. No doubt you’ve heard what happens when my temper snaps.”  
  
He leaves the man standing there, shivering against the wall and turns back to Sherlock only to nearly stumble at the look in his eye. Sherlock’s face is dark and feral; raw lust coloring his eyes a sharp, slate grey. He rakes his gaze down John’s body like a physical caress and John cannot help the shiver of want that travels viscerally up his spine in response. He blinks, however, and it is gone; arousal replaced by the bitter tang of fear and necessity.  
  
John allows himself to bask in the residual glow of adrenaline as he follows Sherlock out the door, praying to a god he doesn’t believe in that Sherlock knows what he’s doing. He will follow Sherlock into the very fires of hell itself without a second glance. He just hopes it doesn’t come to that.  


 

: :  
 _We have all this independence  
But it still feels like we never had a choice_  
: :

  
His name is Richard Coulson, and he is the lowest class of bastard John’s ever seen. They find him in an abandoned warehouse just off the Goldhawk Road in Hammersmith. Emma is miraculously asleep, but for one heart-stopping moment, John feels the cold fingers of dread snatch at his very breath.  
  
Sherlock has Coulson pinned to the service door, his pale knuckles already bruising from the force of his displeasure while John rushes forward to gather up his child. Emma blinks sleepily at him and fusses a little, but settles into a surprisingly quiet embrace as John rocks her gently, silent tears of gratitude running unchecked down his cheeks. He places her back in the makeshift crib with a tender kiss to her downy forehead, taking a moment to stare at her drowsy form before his face hardens into lines of calm rage. Cold fury makes his hand rock-steady as he reaches forward into Sherlock’s pocket, pulling out a spare pair of nitrile gloves and yanking them on with a snap. He slides his hand unerringly around Sherlock’s leg to ease the Glock out of Coulson’s waistband, watching as Coulson’s face seems to freeze at the implication.  
  
“What’ve we got?” John asks, checking the chamber and making sure the gun is fully loaded, noticing the small twitch Coulson gives as John eases the safety back with a small, threatening click.  
  
“Standard rubbish,” Sherlock says with obvious disgust. “Doesn’t know who sent him and didn’t ask for details.”  
  
“Could be lying?” John takes aim and watches with grim satisfaction as Coulson’s eyes begin to bug out in panic, but Sherlock’s hold on his windpipe is keeping his jabbering to short, panting hitches.  
  
“Unfortunately no,” Sherlock sighs as though Coulson’s very ignorance is a pain to his delicate sensibilities. “Useless.”  
  
John’s grin is full of razor wire and shrapnel as he levels the barrel towards Coulson’s head. He knows that he should be hesitating, that somewhere in the back of his sanity, there’s a voice shrieking that this is murder plain and simple, but he’s had just about enough of this ridiculous rollercoaster of a life and he can feel the end of his tether pulling insistently on his restraint. Sherlock is regarding him with a mixture of open curiosity and barely-suppressed heat, and John feels himself relax as the familiar weight of the gun hefts easily in his grasp.  
  
“John,” Sherlock says calmly, pulling away marginally and allowing a small amount of air to the struggling man in his grasp. Coulson immediately begins to thrash, but Sherlock rolls his eyes and brings his knee up hard into the man’s crotch. “Would you like to do the honors?”  
  
John spins the Glock in his hand in one swift move and brings the butt of the gun down hard across Coulson’s jaw, feeling the bones crack and scrape along the unyielding metal. Coulson cries out and crumples to the ground, hands bloody as they clutch at his face. Sherlock raises his eyebrows, but says nothing.  
  
“Now you listen to me, you piece of utter filth,” John says softly, kneeling down in front of the man and holding the Glock steadily pointed at his forehead again. “You came into _my_ house and took _my_ daughter and if you don’t start answering some questions, I’m going to assume it was of your own free will and start taking things from _you_ , understand?”  
  
Coulson spits something incoherent around his swelling jaw, blood beginning to well up between his chapped lips. Sherlock shifts to his right, but John keeps his eyes trained on Coulson’s purpling face.  
  
“I don’t know, alright?” Coulson finally says, his voice thick with pain. “I got a call and followed instructions. Wasn’t my place to ask questions.”  
  
“Wrong answer,” John growls, grabbing at Coulson’s wrist and holding it out from the rest of his body, raising his eyebrows expectantly and sighing as Coulson just stares defiantly at John. John shakes his head in mock pity, taking careful aim and putting a single bullet through Coulson’s right forefinger. Coulson howls in pain and grasps at his hand, staring up at John with renewed terror.  
  
“Moriarty,” Coulson mumbles, rocking slightly where he sits and John feels his face blank into cold understanding. He glances over at Sherlock and meets his uncompromising stare with one of his own.  
  
“Moriarty is dead,” John says. “Try again.”  
  
“John,” Sherlock says softly and John looks up to see Sherlock shake his head minutely. It feels as though someone turns the volume back up to full speed and John becomes suddenly aware of the wailing, sobbing cries of his daughter. He drops the gun to his side, realizing belatedly the echoing cacophony of the shot. John feels his chest constrict with an unnamable emotion as he shifts his gaze back towards Emma, her struggling form kicking and straining against her constricting blankets. He feels the small amount of pity he might have had for Coulson dry up and returns his dispassionate look towards the man.  
  
John gets to his feet and levels the gun at Coulson’s head. Coulson spits a wad of blood and saliva at John’s shoes and John feels his fingers itching to tighten. They’ve done enough here. There’s no more information to be had. As Sherlock said: useless.  
  
Coulson seems to sense the change in John because he stops wringing his hands and fixes them both with a cold, hard stare full of malice and vicious triumph. He grins painfully and visibly calms, dropping his shoulders into a relaxed parade rest and John feels a part of his psyche fold in on itself at the gesture. He hears Emma cry again and knows intrinsically that their time here is just about up.  
  
“You can kill me now,” Coulson grunts, blood dripping from his teeth in an obscene parody of humor. “But you’ll never be safe. This is so much bigger than you—”  
  
The noise of the shot is loud and oddly calming. John feels the gun ricochet backwards, feels his muscles brace and sway with the movement, sees the bullet exit the chamber with deadly accuracy. Coulson falls in a heap at Sherlock’s feet, the bullet hole in his forehead gleaming like a third eye before gravity knocks him facedown onto the concrete. Sherlock blinks rapidly for a few seconds before clambering over to John, roughly pulling the gun from his grip with shaking hands. John turns calmly and unsheathes his fingers, dropping the used gloves into his pocket as he makes his way over to Emma.  
  
She is screeching her unhappiness, the volume of the shot obviously ailing to her tiny eardrums. John curses himself silently for his lack of forethought and gathers her into his arms with a gentle cooing noise. She snuffles and writhes, but seems to calm at least a little. He rocks her slowly, promising nonsense and pressing kisses to her small forehead.  
  
John is dimly aware of the sound of sirens, of the usual heaving climax that comes from the end of a grisly case, but all he can focus on is the tiny life in his arms and the fact that he’d almost lost someone he loves again because of this psychopath and his unending circus of madness. He registers Greg’s voice followed by Sherlock’s short, clipped tones and knows Sherlock must be making their excuses for the dead body, but the world seems to be fading in and out of focus as he holds onto Emma and wishes, for the first time, that his life could be different.  


 

: :  
 _And though she begged and she cajoled,  
I could not tell her what I was thinking of_  
: :

  
Mary takes Emma into her arms the minute they walk into the flat, her stoic demeanor shaken apart by the threat of loss. John watches numbly as she fusses over their daughter, checking her over for grievances and relaxing when she finds none. Emma ceases crying immediately and John feels like even more of a failure; the ease in which Mary handles her a violent juxtaposition to his own fumbling attempts.  
  
Sherlock is uncharacteristically quiet as he comes to stand next to John, offering silent support in the form of a gentle hand at the small of his back. John feels the warmth of his palm all the way through to his bones, thawing the frozen edges of his numb heart and making him ache for things he doesn’t feel he deserves.  
  
Janine is watching them with sympathy etched into her lovely face and John wonders if they might have gotten on a little bit better were it not for the ridiculous circumstances surrounding their stunted relationship. She puts an arm around Mary’s shoulders and squeezes lightly, shooting an imploring look at Sherlock from beneath her lashes. John feels a wave of hot jealousy flood uncomfortably into the pit of his stomach, but he leans minutely backwards into Sherlock’s hand and forces it firmly down. There is too much emotion boiling through his blood right now, and John doesn’t think he’s capable of dealing with one more test of his tightly-controlled resolve.  
  
Greg clears his throat awkwardly from the doorway and John starts at the unexpected noise, the previous tension yet to dissipate and making him embarrassingly jumpy. Mary’s head shoots up and her arm twitches automatically, making John narrow his eyes at the involuntary movement.  
  
“Sorry,” Greg mutters quietly, “I just need to take your statements. Won’t be a minute.” He shrugs his way into the sitting room and pulls out a pad of paper, catching Sherlock around the elbow as he goes and murmuring something urgently into his ear. Sherlock’s jaw clenches, but he nods once stiffly and turns on his heel towards the stairs.  
  
John feels the tight knot of anxiety clench painfully behind his ribs, but he doesn’t move to follow. Instead, he seats himself gingerly on the edge of the sofa and tries to keep his face blank as Greg begins his vague interrogation.  
  
“John.” Sherlock’s deep voice is sharp and imploring and John hears his neck crack as he whips his head around. Sherlock is standing in the doorway, all bustling impatience and irritated confusion and John feels his heart swell in recognition. “Are you coming?” Sherlock demands with a haughty tilt of his head, but John can see the hesitation behind his expression and feels his face break out into an entirely inappropriate grin.  
  
“Is that alright?” John asks Greg, who waves his hand in a dismissive gesture and continues scratching notes into his pad. John glances up at Mary, who meets his gaze with narrowed eyes, but she shrugs and snuggles Emma closer, the relief and fatigue closing around her like a shroud.  
  
John hovers for a moment longer before slipping into his jacket and following swiftly as Sherlock’s coat tails whip around the corner of the building. There is a dense fog hanging just above the ground, the early morning light barely filtering through the heavy clouds as dawn begins to break over the city. John is exhausted and emotionally drained, but he quickens his footsteps to match Sherlock’s infuriatingly long stride. He wonders briefly what it is that has Sherlock so agitated after the crushing intensity of the last twelve hours, but gets his answer the moment they step onto the pavement.  
  
The hulking form of a familiar black sedan is parked unceremoniously at the kerb, and John feels an inappropriate urge to laugh tugging roughly at his insides. He feels out of control and manic, the roiling emotion of the past few months eating at his usual calm and leaving him flayed open in the weak sunlight. He stops abruptly and lets it wash over him: the unfamiliar tang of panic ebbing slowly into the bitterness of regret.  
  
Sherlock halts just short of the door, his gaze hesitant and questioning as he looks back to where John is standing stock-still in the middle of the road.  
  
“John?” Sherlock asks slowly, as though John is some kind of wild animal in need of calming. John thinks that description is remarkably apt.  
  
“Oh, why the fuck not?” John breathes out, hunching his shoulders and steeling himself for Mycroft’s polite indifference.  
  
Sherlock eyes him warily as he opens the door, but his expression is completely blank when he slides onto the plush leather next to John. Mycroft is sitting on the seat opposite, a laptop open casually across his knees as though meetings at dawn are nothing more than a slight inconvenience in the ebbing tide of his busy day.  
  
“It appears you two have had quite the thrilling night,” Mycroft drawls blandly, and John feels himself flush with an acute mixture of embarrassment and anger.  
  
“Tends to happen when someone steals your daughter,” John grinds out, ignoring Sherlock’s sharp grip on his thigh. Mycroft lifts an eyebrow with a suitably bemused expression, and John knows without a doubt he’s not just talking about the kidnapping.  
  
“Indeed.”  
  
“What do you want, Mycroft? We’re busy,” Sherlock states coldly, and John can tell he’s at the end of his patience already.  
  
“I have a proposition for Doctor Watson, as a matter of fact.” Mycroft’s expression is still subdued, but his eyes flash in a way strangely reminiscent of his little brother’s, and John finds himself suddenly exhausted of it all.  
  
“He’s not interested,” Sherlock bites.  
  
“I’m sure he’s perfectly capable of answering for himself, Sherlock.”  
  
“Boys, boys, you’re both pretty,” John cuts in, trying to ignore the way his head is pounding at the temples. Sherlock’s lips twitch into an almost imperceptible smirk, but Mycroft fixes John with a deceptively blank stare before blinking once, slowly.  
  
“It concerns your current… _situation_ , and what precisely we are to do with a highly trained assassin wanted by more than four countries, Dr Watson.”  
  
John’s blood seems to chill immediately and he feels Sherlock stiffen on the seat beside him.

  
“Ah, I see I have your attention,” Mycroft adds with a supercilious smile.  
  
“Oh, get on with it,” Sherlock huffs, folding his arms across his chest in a pout of toddler-like proportions.  
  
“As it happens, we have a solution that should sum up your troubles nicely,” Mycroft says smoothly, turning back to his laptop and typing out a few pointed words. “Given recent events, I think it’s fairly obvious your current arrangements are not exactly working.”  
  
“What would you suggest?” John asks, his voice sticking in his throat. He has a bad feeling that whatever Mycroft is about to say, he’s not going to like it one bit.  
  
“Mrs Watson and Emmaline will be moved to an undisclosed location and placed under witness protection,” Mycroft intones blandly, as if they’re discussing nothing more interesting than the weather. John swallows convulsively, his mouth suddenly dry. Sherlock glances at him briefly before turning his face back towards the window; inscrutable and blank as ever.  
  
“What about me?” John asks finally, when it seems the silence is just going to stretch on and on. Mycroft looks startled for a split second before glancing down at his computer in feigned disinterest.  
  
“You’re welcome to join them, of course,” he says slowly, and John can see Sherlock’s shoulders stiffen in his peripheral vision. “You will undoubtedly be safer at any rate. We can secure a local clinic for you to work at; in a good area with good local schools.” John feels utterly sick.  
  
He thinks about a life where he and Mary are stuck together in perpetual hell; endless years of arguments and mistrust, of having to pretend everything is alright for the sake of yet another lie and he knows he will never survive a single second. But then he thinks of Emma; small and frail and completely unaware of any of this epic fuckery. He wants to be there to watch her take her first steps, to teach her how to read and write and ride her first bicycle. He wants to watch her grow into a young woman: beautiful and strong and entirely compelling.  
  
He wonders if he could even do it. John knows he’s a terrible liar, even at the best of times. How could he possibly sustain this elaborate a ruse for the rest of his life? He wonders what they’d tell Harry, what Mrs Hudson would say, what Bill and Mike and everyone at the surgery would do without him. He thinks about leaving London behind; about abandoning Harry to her alcoholism alone, about never seeing his friends or family ever again. He thinks about giving up his entire identity; leaving behind memories of blood and sand, about never being able to see his old army mates again… about leaving Sherlock.  
  
“And if I don’t?”  
  
Mycroft’s tight smile is a little bit too sympathetic for John’s liking. “I’m afraid you can never see them again.”  
  
It feels like a punch in the chest. John is aware that the world is still turning around him, that life is moving forward, but he cannot think beyond the echoing thought flashing through his brain: he will never see Emma again.  
  
“There is no easy choice in this, Dr Watson. That decision is entirely up to you,” Mycroft adds quietly. “Think on it. I’ll need your answer in the morning.”  
  
John becomes suddenly aware that they’ve ceased moving and he blinks unsteadily out the windows onto the blurry form of 221 Baker Street. It feels like his entire world has changed in the space of the past 24 hours without his explicit consent. He reaches for the handle with a shaking hand and barely manages a curt nod before he’s out the door and into the bracingly cool air of early morning.  
  
“John,” Sherlock says quietly behind him, and John feels long, spidery fingers splay gently across the small of his back. “Come on, John. Inside.”  
  
John lets himself be shepherded into the flat, numbly aware of the churning, aching feeling in his gut; guilt and anxiety frothing around simple exhaustion; making his head spin. Sherlock removes his coat for him, tugging softly on the fabric until it gives and depositing John in his armchair as though he’s made of spun glass. It’s degrading and humiliating, but John is honestly too overwhelmed to care.  
  
He looks around the sitting room, taking in the dusty bookshelves and scattered detritus and wonders how he’s ever supposed to get along again without the sound of Sherlock’s violin at four in the morning, without the comfort and familiarity of the first place he’s thought of as _home_ since he was a child. Sherlock clears his throat softly and John finds himself presented with a cup of tea, the novelty of the unexpected gesture enough to snap him out of his stunned reverie.  
  
“Thank you,” he mumbles, taking a small sip.  
  
Sherlock is hovering uncertainly next to his chair, shifting his weight in a way that makes him appear endearingly young and John feels his heart clench at the thought of never having this again.  
Eventually, Sherlock settles across from him, perched gingerly on the edge of his own armchair with a look of determination that John doesn’t like at all.  
  
“I don’t wish to influence your decision,” Sherlock says, his usual brusqueness gone from his tone, making him seem impossibly vulnerable and John feels his stomach roil again. “The choice is entirely up to you. However,” and now Sherlock pins him with a look that’s entirely _Sherlock_ : possessive and fierce and utterly, wonderfully raw, “I cannot pretend the idea of you leaving is tolerable, John. I’ve watched you walk away twice now and I cannot abide you doing so again without emphasizing that I will do _anything_ to keep you. If I have to fight for you, I will, and without hesitation.”  
  
John feels his breath catch, the decision so suddenly and obviously clear, he feels it sink down into his bones with utmost conviction.  
  
“I love you.” The words tumble out of John’s mouth before he has the chance to filter them, but he doesn’t regret them for a single second. Not with the way Sherlock’s eyes widen and his chest heaves suddenly.  
  
“ _John_ ,” Sherlock starts, but John is up and out of his chair before he can utter another syllable, tugging at Sherlock’s hair and kissing him with everything he has, everything he _is_. Sherlock groans, low and deep, and John feels as though his heart is trying to beat its way right out of his chest, tearing through ribs and muscle to land pulsing in Sherlock’s lap.  
  
“I love you,” John whispers again into Sherlock’s mouth, and the world seems to finally shudder to a jerky stop. He’s not sure if he’s making the right decision, but John knows deep in his soul that finding out otherwise would end him in more ways than one.  
  
“Thank you,” Sherlock murmurs into the space behind John’s ear, fingers just a little too tight where they’re woven into John’s jumper. “Thank you.”  


 

: :  
 _I didn’t choose, no I was chosen  
By a life that must be lived in passing through_  
: :

  
John finds himself standing on a blank tarmac for the second time in six months and wonders what on earth he’s done to deserve this level of fuckery. He glances at the sky, watching as a fluffy white cloud passes overhead. It’s unseasonably warm, adding to the unreality of the situation. Emma squirms in his arms and he turns her to face him, cradling her small head in the cup of his hand and bending forward to place a gentle kiss on her forehead. Her face screws up for a moment and John is worried she’s about to start crying again, but then she giggles and grabs at his nose; pudgy little fingers uncoordinated and weak, gums pink and shiny in the sunlight.  
  
John smiles back at her, feeling his heart break all over again. She is so small and innocent, completely unaware that this is the last time she’ll ever see her father. He hopes Mary will tell her about him someday, that the truth of the situation will not bleed into her memories of him and leave her just as bitter and unsettled as John feels himself. Mary is watching them with something that looks suspiciously like pain in her eyes and John turns quickly to hide his emotion, handing Emma off to Anthea with one last lingering kiss against her soft hair.  
  
He gathers himself silently for a moment, taking all of the hurt and regret and pushing it down firmly, knowing that his decision must be final or he will live the rest of his life in a constant state of what-if. He feels small fingers on his shoulder and turns to find Mary before him, her face softened once more and for one blinding second, she looks like the woman John first fell in love with. It hurts in a way he’s not expecting and he feels his resolve start to crumble a little at the edges.  
  
“It’s over, John,” Mary says quietly, and it’s simultaneously the most beautiful and terrible thing John has ever heard. “It’s been over for months now. There’s no point in dragging this out any longer than it needs to be.”  
  
“Is this it then?” John asks desperately. Mary’s eyes are welled with tears and the infinitesimal part of John that ever loved her seems to shriek in rejection.  
  
“I’m so sorry, John,” Mary whispers back, and she actually looks like she means it. It is so utterly unfair that John nearly screams in frustration. Everything is happening too fast, the world shifting again so suddenly, and John feels wrenched apart.  
  
“You can’t leave,” John says in a broken whisper, but she’s pulling away from him, taking the bundle of blankets that is their daughter out of Anthea’s unresisting hands and walking away.  
  
“Mary!” John shouts, unable to hold rein on his temper any longer. He’s angry and confused and so, so hurt and it feels like his heart will explode in his chest as she turns to look at him with tears in her eyes.  
  
“It’s Anna,” she says in a voice that’s entirely unlike her own. John stares at her in complete shock. Everything about her has changed from her demeanor to her posture and John feels a tendril of real fear curl cold and unforgiving in his gut. Emma begins to fuss, struggling in her nest of fabric and Mary— _Anna_ — shifts her around, cooing gently at her until she stills again. John feels like his heart is tearing in two.  
  
“Goodbye, John Watson,” she murmurs softly and then they’re gone, swallowed into the yawning chasm of the cabin door.  
  
John watches the aeroplane ascend with a numbing sense of deja-vu. He feels hollow and feeble, like a strong breeze might blow him over and he worries for one heart-stopping moment that he’s just made the biggest mistake of his life.  
  
But then there are warm fingers sliding through his own, Sherlock’s silent support more meaningful and grounding than anything John could ever have asked for.  
  
“Let’s go home, John,” Sherlock murmurs quietly.  
  
And they do.  


 

: :  
 _Darling, I’m leaving…_  
: :


End file.
